UC-NRLF 


B    3    33^    TTS 


FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S   EYES 


(Mrs.  Lionel  Marks) 


HARVEST    MOON. 

THE   WOLF  OF   GUBBIO:    A  Comedy  in 

Three  Acts. 
THE  SINGING   MAN. 
THE  PIPER. 

THE  BOOK  OF  THE  LITTLE  PAST.     Illus- 
trated in  color. 

THE  SINGING   LEAVES. 

MARLOV^E  :   A  DRAMA. 

FORTUNE  AND   MEN'S   EYES. 

OLD  GREEK  FOLK  STORIES. 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
Boston  and  New  York 


FORTUNE 
AND    MEN'S    EYES 

New   Poems  with  a   Play 

By 

Josephine   Preston   Peabody 


Boston  and  New  York 

Houghton  Mifflin  Company 
The  Riverside  Press  Cambridge 


Copyrighty  I<p00y  by 

Small,    Maynard  &   Company, 

( Incorporated, ) 

Entered  at  Stationers*  Hall. 


(^All  dramatic  rights  reserved.) 


THIRD   IMPRESSION 


TO 

MY   MOTHER'S    PRESENCE 

AND 
MY     FATHER'S      MEMORY 


G342S 


CONTENTS 
FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES 


POEMS 

The  Source 

53 

The  Quiet 

54 

The  Psyche  in  the  Niche 

57 

I  Shall  Arise 

6o 

The  Knot 

62 

Ghost 

64 

In  the  Silence 

66 

The  Survivor 

68 

The  Violin  Withheld 

69 

Litany  of  the  Living 

75 

Epistles 

L      Memorable 

78 

n.      To  A.  F.  B.  in  Praise  of  Us 

79 

in.      To  the  Friend  that  Was 

79 

The  Hearer 

81 

The  Wingless  Joy 

82 

SONGS 

Daily  Bread 

97 

Play  up.  Piper  ! 

98 

The  Comfort 

99 

Carpaccio's  Angel  with  the  Lute 

101 

rn 


CONTENTS 

SONGS 

Stay-at-Home  102 

Return  104 

'  Words  for  an  Irish  Folk-Song  106 

Light  in  Dark  1 07 

A  Spinning-Song  108 

Miranda  109 

The  Beloved  1 10 

Good-night  III 


vni 


FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S   EYES 
A   DRAMA    IN   ONE   ACT 


**  When  in  disgrace  with  Fortune  and  men^ s  eyes^\  .  . 

Sonnet  xxix. 


CHARACTERS 

William  Herbert,  Son  of  the  Earl  of  Pembroke 

Simeon  Dyer,  A  Puritan 

Tobias,  Host  of  "  The  Bear  and  The  Angel'''' 

Wat  Burrow,  A  hear-'^ward 

Dickon,  A  little  hoy^  son  to   Tobias 

Chiffin,  a  ballad-monger 

A  Prentice 


A  Player,  Master  W.  S.   of  the  Lord  Chamberlain''  s  Com- 
pany 


Mistress  Mary  Fytton,  A  maid-of-honor  to  S^ueen  Eliza- 
beth 
Mistress  Anne  Hughes,  Also  of  the  Court 

Taverners  and  Prentices 

Time  represented :  An  afternoon  in  the  autumn  of 
the  year  J^gg 


FORTUNE    AND    MEN'S    EYES 


Scene  :  Interior  of  "  The  Bear  and  the  Angel^"* 
South  London.  At  hack^  the  centre  entrance  gives 
on  a  short  alley-walk  which  joins  the  street  be- 
yond at  a  right  angle.  To  right  and  left  of  this 
doorway^  casements.  Down^  on  the  right^  a  door 
opening  upon  the  inn-garden ;  a  second  door  on  the 
right .^  up.,  leading  to  a  tap-room.  Opposite  this.,  left., 
a  door  leading  into  a  buttery.  Opposite  the  gar- 
den-door., a  large  chimney-piece  with  a  smouldering 
wood-fire.  A  fevj  seats ;  a  lantern  [unlighted^  in 
a  corner.  In  the  foreground.,  to  the  right.,  a  long 
and  narrow  table  with  several  mugs  of  ale  upon  it., 
also  a  lute. 

At  one  end  of  the  table  Wat  Burrow  is  finishing 
his  ale  and  holding  forth  to  the  Prentice  {who  thrums 
the  lute^  and  a  group  of  taverners.,  some  smoking.  At 
the  further  end  of  the  table  Simeon  Dyer  observes  all 
with  grave  curiosity,  Tobias  and  Dickon  draw 
near.      General  noise. 


Prentice  {singing^. 
JVhat  do  I  give  for  the  Pope  and  his  riches  ! 
Ps  my  ale  and  my  Sunday  breeches ; 
Ps  an  old  master.,  Ps  a  young  lass., 
And  we'll  eat  green  goose.,  come  Martinmas  ! 


6  FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S    EYES 

Sing  Rowdy  Dowdy ^ 
Look  ye  dorCt  crowd  me : 
V s  a  good  cluh^ 

—  So  let  me  pass  I 

Dickon.     Again  !  again  ! 

Prentice.  Sing  Rowdy  — 

Wat  {^finishing  his  beer).      Swallow  it  down. 
Sling  all  such  froth  and  follow  me  to  the  Bear ! 
They  stay  for  me,  lined  up  to  see  us  pass 
From  end  to  end  o'  the  alley.      Ho  !     You  doubt  ? 
From  Lambeth  to  the  Bridge ! 

Prentices.    1  J  'Tis  so  ;  ay. 

Taverners.  j  \  Come,  follow  !      Come. 

Wat.  Greg's  stuck  his  ears 

With  nosegays,  and  his  chain  is  wound  about 
Like  any  May-pole.     What  ?      I  tell  ye,  boys, 
Ye  have  seen  no  such  bear,  a  Bear  o'  Bears, 
Fit  to  bite  ofF  the  prophet,  in  the  show, 
With  seventy  such  boys  ! 

(^Pulling  Dickon's  ear.)      Bears,  say  you,  bears  ? 
Why,  Rursus  Major,  as  your  scholars  tell, 
A  royal  bear,  the  greatest  in  his  day. 
The  sport  of  Alexander,  unto  Nick  — 
Was  a  ewe-lamb,  dyed  black ;  no  worse,  no  worse. 
To-morrow  come  and  see  him  with  the  dogs ; 
He'll  not  give  way,  —  not  he ! 

Dickon.  To-morrow's  Thursday  ! 

To-morrow's  Thursday  ! 

Prentice.  Will  ye  lead  by  here  ? 


FORTUNE    AND    MEN'S    EYES  7 

Tobias.     Ay,  that    would    be    a   sight.      Wat, 
man,  this  way  ! 

Wat.      Ho,  would    you    squinch   us  ?      Why, 
there  be  a  press 
O'  gentry  by  this  tide  to  measure  Nick 
And  lay  their  wagers,  at  a  blink  of  him. 
Against  to-morrow  !     Why,  the  stairs  be  full. 
To-morrow  you  shall  see  the  Bridge  a-creak. 
The  river  —  dry  with  barges,  —  London  gape. 
Gape  !     While  the  Borough  buzzes  like  a  hive 
With  all  their  worships  !     Sirs,  the  fame  o'  Nick 
Has  so  pluckt  out  the  gentry  by  the  sleeve, 
'Tis  said  the  Queen  would  see  him. 

Tobias.   )  (  Ay,  'tis  grand. 

Dickon.  J  \  O-oh,  the  Queen  ? 

Prentice.     How  now  ?     Thou  art  no  man  to 
lead  a  bear. 
Forgetting  both  his  quality  and  hers  ! 
Drink  all ;  come,  drink  to  her. 

Tobias.  Ay,  now. 

Wat.  To  her  !  — 

And  harkee,  boy,  this  saying  will  serve  you  learn  : 
"  The  Queen,  her  high  and  glorious  majesty  !  " 

Simeon  (^gravely).     Long  live  the  Queen  ! 

Wat.  Maker  of  golden  laws 

For  baitings  !     She  that  cherishes  the  Borough 
And  shines  upon  our  pastimes.      By  the  mass  ! 
Thank  her  for  the  crowd  to-morrow.      But  for  her. 
We  were  a  homesick  handful  of  brave  souls 


8  FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S    EYES 

That    love    the    royal     sport.       These    mouthing 

players, 
These  hookers,  would  'a'  spoiled  us  of  our  beer  — 
Prentice.     Lying  by  to  catch  the  gentry  at  the 
stairs, — 
All  pressing  to  Bear  Alley  — 

Wat.  Run  'em  in 

At  stage-plays  and  show-fooleries  on  the  way. 
Stage-plays,  with  their  tart  nonsense  and  their  flags, 
Their  "  Tamerlanes  "  and  "Humors"  and   what 

not! 
My  life  on't,  there  was  not  a  man  of  us 
But  fared  his  Lent,  by  reason  of  their  fatness, 
And  on  a  holiday  ate  not  at  all  ! 

Tobias  (^solemnly) .      'Tis  so  ;   'tis  so. 
Wat.  But  when  she  heard  It  told 

How  lean   the  sport  was  grown,  she  damns  stage- 
plays 
O'    Thursday.       So  :     Nick    gets    his    turn     to 
growl  ! 
Prentice.      As  well  as  any  player. 
(^JVith  a  dumb  show  of  ranting  among  the  taverners.) 
Wat.  Players  ?  —  Hang  them  ! 

I  know  'em,  L     I've  been  with  'em.    ...   I  was 
As  sweet  a  gentlewoman  in   my  voice 
As  any  of  your  finches  that  sings   small. 

Tobias.  'Twas  high. 

(Enter  The  Player  ^followed  by  Chiffin^  the  ballad- 
monger.      Me  is  abstracted  and  weary  ^ 


FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S    EYES  9 

Wat  (^lingering  at  the  table),     I  say,  I've  played. 
.    .    .    There's  not  one  man 
Of  all  the  gang  —  save  one  .    .    .  Ay,  there  be  one 
I  grant  you,  now  !    ...  He  used  me  in  right  sort  j 
A  man  worth  better  trades. 

(^Seeing    The  Player.)       — Lord  love  you,  sir ! 
Why,  this  is  you  indeed.     'Tis  a  long  day,  sir, 
Since  I  clapped  eyes  on  you.      But  even  now 
Your  name  was  on  my  tongue  as  pat  as  ale  ! 
You  see  me  off.     We  bait  to-morrow,  sir ; 
Will  you  come  see  ?     Nick's  fresh,  and  every  soul 
As  hot  to  see  the  fight  as  'twere  to  be  — 
Man  Daniel,  baited  with  the  lions  ! 

Tobias.  Sir, 

'Tis  high   .   .   .   'tis  high. 

Wat.  We  show  him  in  the  street 

With  dogs  and  all,  ay,  now,  if  you  will  see. 

The  Player.     Why,  so  I  will.     A  show  and  I 
not  there? 
Bear  it  out  bravely,  Wat.     High  fortune,  man  I 
Commend  me  to  thy  bear. 

(^Drinks  and  passes  him  the  cup  J) 

Wat.  Lord  love  you,  sir  1 

'Twas  ever  so  you  gave  a  man  godspeed.  .  .  . 
And  yet  your  spirits  flag  ;  you  look  but  palely. 
rU  take  your  kindness,  thank  ye. 

{Turning  away,)  In  good  time  ! 

Come  after  me  and  Nick,  now.     Follow  all  ; 
Come  boys,  come,  pack  ! 


lo  FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S    EYES 

(Exit  Wat^  still  descanting.      Exeunt  most  of 

the   taverners^  with    the    Prentice.       Simeon 

Dyer  draws  near  The  Player^  regarding  him 

gravely.      Chiffn  sells  ballads  to  those  who  go 

out.      Dickon   is  about  to  follow   them^  when 

Tobias  stops  him.) 

Tobias.  What  ?    Not  so  fast,  you  there  -, 

Who  gave  you  holiday  ?      Bide  by  the  inn ; 

Tend  on  our  gentry.  (^Exit  after  the  crowd.) 

Chiffin.  Ballads,  gentlemen  ? 

Ballads,  new  ballads  ? 

Simeon    {to    The  Player).     With  your  pardon, 
sir, 
I  am  gratified  to  note  your  abstinence 
From  this  deplorable  fond  merriment 
Of  baiting  of  a  bear. 

The  Player.  Your  friendship  then 

Takes  pleasure  in  the  heaviness  of  my  legs. 
But  I  am  weary  I  would  see  the  bear. 
Nay,  rest  you  happy ;  malt  shall  comfort  us. 
Simeon.     You  do  mistake  me.      I  am  — 
Chiffin.  Ballad,  sir  ? 

"  How  a  Young  Spark  would  Woo  a  Tanner's  Wife, 
And  She  Sings  Sweet  in  Turn." 

Simeon  {indignantly).  Abandoned  poet  ! 

Chiffin   {indignantly).      I'm    no    such    thing! 
An  honest  ballad,  sir. 
No  poetry  at  all. 

The  Player.     Good,  sell  thy  wares. 


FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S    EYES  ii 

Chiffin.     "  A  Ballad  of  a  Virtuous   Country- 
Maid 
Forswears  the  Follies  of  the  Flaunting  Town  "  — 
And  tends  her  geese  all  day,  and  weds  a  vicar. 
Simeon.     A  godlier  tale,  in  sooth.     But  speak, 
my  man  ; 
If  she  be  virtuous,  and  the  tale  a  true  one. 
Can  she  not  do't  in  prose? 

The  Player.  Beseech  her,  man. 

'Tis  scandal  she  should  use  a  measure  so. 
For  no  more  sin  than  dealing  out  false  measure 
Was  Dame  Sapphira  slain. 

Simeon.  You  are  with  me,  sir; 

Although  methinks  you  do  mistake  the  sense 
O'  that  you  have  read.  .  .  .   This  jigging,  jog-trot 

rime. 
This  ring-me-round,  debaseth  mind  and  matter. 
To  make  the  reason  giddy  — 

Chiffin  (^to  The  Player),  Ballad,  sir? 

"  Hear  All !  "  A  fine  brave  ballad  of  a  Fish 
Just  caught  off  Dover  ;  nay,  a  one-eyed  fish. 
With  teeth  in  double  rows. 

The  Player.  Nay,  nay,  go  to. 

Chiffin.     "  My  Fortune's    Folly,"    then  >   or 
"The  True  Tale 
Of   an   Angry    Gull ;  "    or    "  Cherries    Like   Me 

Best." 
"  Black  Sheep,  or  How  a  Cut-Purse  Robbed  His 
Mother ;  " 


12  FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S     EYES 

"  The  Prentice  and  the  Dell  ! "  .    .    .  "  Plays  Play 

not  Fair," 
Or  how  a  gentlewoman' s  heart  was  took 
By  a  player  that  was  king  in  a  stage-play.   .   .   . 
"The  Merry  Salutation,"  "  How  a  Spark 
Would  Woo  a  Tanner's  Wife  !  "     "  The  Direful 

Fish  "  — 
Cock's  passion,  sir !  not  buy  a  cleanly  ballad 
Of  the  great  fish,  late  ta'en  off  Dover  coast, 
Having  two  heads  and  teeth  in  double  rows.   .    .    . 
Salt  fish  catched  in  fresh  water  ?   .    .    . 

'Od's  my  life  ! 
What  if  or  salt  or  fresh  ?     A  prodigy  ! 
A    ballad     like     "  Hear    All  !  "       And     me    and 

mine. 
Five  children  and  a  wife  would  bait  the  devil, 
May  lap  the  water  out  o'  Lambeth  Marsh 
Before  he'll  buy  a  ballad.     My  poor  wife, 
That  lies  a-weeping  for  a  tansy-cake  ! 
Body  o'  me,  shall  I  scent  ale  again  ? 

The  Player.     Why,  here's  persuasion  ;  logic, 

arguments. 
Nay,  not  the  ballad.     Read  for  thine  own  joy. 
T  doubt  not  but  it  stretches,  honest  length, 
From  Maid  Lane  to  the  Bridge  and  so  across. 
But  for  thy  length  of  thirst  — 

(^Giving  him  a  coin.')  That  touches  near. 

Chiffin  (apart"),     A  vagrom  player,  would  not 

buy  a  tale 


FORTUNE    AND    MEN'S    EYES  13 

O'  the  Great  Fish  with  the  twy  rows  o'  teeth  ! 
Learn  you  to  read  !  (Exit.) 

Simeon.      Thou  seemest,  sir,  from  that  I  have 
overheard, 
A  man,  as  one  should  grant,  beyond  thy  calling.  .  .  . 
I  would  I  might  assure  thee  of  the  way. 
To  urge  thee  quit  this  painted  infamy. 
There  may  be  time,  seeing  thou  art  still  young. 
To  pluck  thee  from  the  burning.      How  are  ye 

'stroyed. 
Ye  foolish  grasshoppers  !      Cut  off,  forgotten, 
When    moth     and    rust     corrupt    your    flaunting 

shows. 
The  Earth  shall  have  no  memory  of  your  name ! 
Dickon.      Pray  you,  what's  yours  ? 
Simeon.  I  am  called  Simeon  Dyer. 

(TThere  is  the  sudden  uproar  of  a  crowd  in  the 
distance.  It  continues  at  intervals  for  some 
time.^ 

fHey,  lads? 

Prentices.  J  ^^"'^  "°^'^  ^^^^"^  •  ^^"^^'  ^"^- 
I       geis,  come ! 

l^Come  on,  come  on,  I'm  for  it. 

(Exeunt    all    hut     The    Player^    Simeon^    and 

Dickon.^ 

Simeon.     Something  untoward,  without :  or  is 

it  rather 

The  tumult  of  some  uproar  incident 

To  this   .   .    .   vicinity? 


14  FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S    EYES 

The  Player.  It  Is  an  uproar 

Most  Incident  to  bears. 

Dickon.  I  would  I  knew  ! 

The   Player    (^holding  him  off  at  ann^s  length). 
Hey,  boy  ?     We  would  have  tidings  of  the  bear  : 
Go  thou,  I'll  be  thy  surety.      Mark  him  well. 
Omit  no  fact ;  I  would  have  all  of  it : 
What  manner  o'   bear   he    is,  —  how  bears   him- 
self; 
Number  and  pattern  of  ears,  and  eyes  what  hue ; 
His  voice  and  fashion  o'  coat.      Nay,  come  not 

back, 
Till  thou  hast  all.     Skip,  sirrah  !      {^Exit  Dickon.) 
Simeon.  Think,  fair  sir. 

Take  this  new  word  of  mine  to  be  a  seed 
Of  thought  in  that  neglected  garden  plot. 
Thy  mind,  thy  worthier  part.      But  think  ! 

The  Player.  Why,  so  ; 

Thou   hast  some   right,  friend ;  now  and  then  it 

serves. 
Sometimes  I  have  thought,  and   even  now  some- 
times, 
...   I  think. 

Simeon    (^benevolently).      Heaven   ripen   thought 

unto  an  harvest!  (Exit.) 

(  The   Player  rises^  stretches  his  arms^  and  paces 

the  floor  ^  wearily.) 

The   Player  (^alone).     Some  quiet  now.    .    .   . 

Why  should  I  thirst  for  it 


FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S    EYES  15 

As  if  my  thoughts  were  noble  company  ? 
Alone  with  the  one  man  of  all  living  men 
I  have  least  cause  to  honor.    .    .    . 

I'm  no  lover. 
That  seek  to  be  alone  !    .    .    .   She  is  too  false  — 
At  last,  to  keep  a  spaniel's  loyalty. 
I  do  believe  it.      And  by  my  own  soul, 
She  shall  not  have  me,  what  remains  of  me 
That  may  be  beaten  back  into  the  ranks. 
I  will  not  look  upon  her.    .    .    .   Bitter  Sweet. 
This  fever  that  torments  me  day  by  day  — 
Call  it  not  love  —  this  servitude,  this  spell 
That  haunts  me  like  a  sick  man's  fantasy. 
With  pleading  of  her  eyes,  her  voice,  her  eyes  — 
It  shall  not  have  me.      I  am  too  much  stained : 
But,  God  or  no  God,  yet  I  do  not  live 
And  have  to  bear  my  own  soul  company, 
To  have  it  stoop  so  low.      She  looks  on  Herbert. 
Oh,  I  have  seen.      But  he,  —  he  must  withstand. 
He  knows  that  I  have  suffered,  —  suffer  still  — 
Although  I  love  her  not.      Her  ways,  her  ways  — 
It  is  her  ways  that  eat  into  the  heart 
With  beauty  more  than  Beauty;   and  her  voice 
That  silvers  o'er  the  meaning  of  her  speech 
Like    moonshine    on     black    waters.        Ah,     un- 
coil !    .    .    . 
He's  the  sure  morning  after  this  dark  dream  ; 
Clear  daylight  and  west  wind  of  a  lad's  love; 
With  all  his  golden  pride,  for  my  dull  hours, 


Faiff  kind,  and  true  J 


i6  FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES 

Still  climbing  sunward!     Sink  all  loves  in  him! 
And  cleanse  me  of  this  cursed,  fell  distrust 
That  marks  the  pestilence. 

Lad,  lad.    How  could  I  turn  from  friendliness 
To  worship  such  false  gods?  — 
There  cannot  thrive  a  greater  love  than  this, 
*  Fair,  kind,  and  true.'    And  yet,  if  She  were  true 
To    me,   though    false  to   all    things    else ;  —  one 

truth, 
So  one  truth  lived  — .      One  truth  !     O  beggared 

soul, 
—  Foul  Lazarus,  so  starved  it  can  make  shift 
To  feed  on  crumbs  of  honor  !  —  Am  I  this  ? 

{Enter  Anne  Hughes,      She  has  been  running 
in  evident  terror^  and  stands  against  the  door 
looking  about  her.^ 
Anne.     Are  you  the  inn-keeper  ? 
{The  Player  turns  and  bows  courteously.) 

Nay,  sir,  your  pardon. 
I  saw  you  not  .  .  .  And  yet  your  face,  methinks, 
But  —  yes,  I'm  sure.    .    .    . 

But  where's  the  inn-keeper  ? 
I  know  not  where  I  am,  nor  where  to  go. 

The  Player.      Madam,  it  is  my  fortune  that 
I  may 
Procure  you  service.      {Going  towards  the  door,) 
{The  uproar  sounds  nearer,) 


FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S    EYES  17 

Anne.  Nay  !  what    if   the 

bear  — 

The  Player.     The  bear  ? 

Anne.  The  door  !  The  bear  is  broken  loose. 
Did  you  not  hear  ?  I  scarce  could  make  my  way 
Through  that  rank  crowd,  in  search  of  some  safe 

place. 
You  smile,  sir  !     But  you  had  not  seen  the  bear, — 
Nor  I,  this  morning.      Pray  you,  hear  me  out,  — 
For  surely  you  are  gentler  than  the  place. 
I  came   ...   I  came  by  water  ...  to  the  Garden, 
Alone,   .    .    .   from  bravery,  to  see  the  show 
And  tell  of  it  hereafter  at  the  Court ! 
There's  one  of  us  makes  count  of  all  such  'scapes 
('Tis  Mistress  Fytton).      She  will  ever  tell 
The  sport  it  is  to  see  the  people's  games 
Among  themselves,  —  to  go  incognita 
And  take  all  as  it  is  not  for  the  Queen, 
Gallants  and  rabble  !      But  by  Banbury  Cross, 
I  am  of  tamer  mettle  !  —  All  alone. 
Among  ten  thousand  noisy  watermen ; 
And  then  the  foul  ways  leading  from  the  Stair ; 
And   then   ...   no    friends  I    knew,  nay,  not   a 

face. 
And  my  dear  nose  beset,  and  my  pomander 
Lost  in  the  rout,  —  or  else  a  cut-purse  had  it : 
And  then  the  bear  breaks  loose  !      Oh,  'tis  a  day 
Full  of  vexations,  nay,  and  dangers  too. 
I  would  I  had  been  slower  to  outdo 


1 8  FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S    EYES 

The   pranks   of   Mary  Fytton.    .    .    .   You   know 
her,   sir? 
The  Player.      If  one  of  my  plain  calling  may 
be  said 
To  know  a  maid-of-honor.     (^More  lightly.^     And 

yet  more  : 
My  heart  has  cause  to  know  the  lady's  face. 

Anne  (^blankly).     Why,  so  it  is.    .    .    .   Is't  not 
a  marvel,  sir, 
The  way  she  hath  ?     Truly,  her  voice  is  good.  .  .  . 
And  yet,  —  but  oh,  she  charms;  I  hear  it  said. 
A  winsome  gentlewoman,  of  a  wit,  too. 
We  are  great  fellows ;   she  tells  me  all  she  does  ; 
And,  sooth,  I  listen  till  my  ears  be  like 
To  grow  for  wonder.    Whence  my  'scape,  to-day  1 
Oh,  she  hath  daring  for  the  pastimes  here  ; 
I    would — change    looks   with    her,  to   have    her 

spirit ! 
Indeed,  they  say  she  charms  Some  one,  by  this. 
The  Player.     Some  one.   .   .   . 
Anne.  Hast  heard? 

Why  sure  my  Lord  of  Herbert, 
Ay,    Pembroke's    son.      But    there    I    doubt, — I 

doubt. 
He  is  an  eagle  will  not  stoop  for  less 
Than  kingly  prey.      No  bird-lime  takes  him. 

The  Player.  Herbert.  .  .  . 

He  hath  shown  many  favors  to  us  players. 
Anne.     Ah,  now  I  have  you  ! 


FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S    EYES  19 

The  Player.  Surely,  gracious  madam  j 

My  duty  i   .    .    .   what  besides  ? 

Anne.  This  face  of  yours. 

'Twas    in    some    play,    belike.       [Jpart.)    .    .    . 

I  took  him  for 
A  man  it  should  advantage  me  to  know! 
And  he's  a  proper  man  enough.    .    .    .   Ay  me  ! 

(^IVhen  she  speaks  to  him  again  it  is  with  en- 
couraging condescension.^ 
Surely  you've  been  at  Whitehall,  Master  Player  ? 
The  Player  (bowing).     So. 
Anne.  And  how  oft  ?     And  when  ? 

The  Player.  Last  Christmas  tide; 

And  Twelfth  Day  eve,  perchance.      Your  memory 
Freshens  a  dusty  past.     .    .    .   The  hubbub's  over. 
Shall  I  look  forth  and  find  some  trusty  boy 
To  attend  you  to  the  river  ? 

Anne.  I  thank  you,  sir. 

(He  goes   to   the  door  and  steps    out    into    the 
alley ^  looking  up  and  down.      The  noise  in  the 
distance  sp? ings  up  again.) 
(Jpart.)      'Tis  not  past  sufferance.      Marry,  I 
could  stay 
Some  moments  longer,  till  the  streets  be  safe. 
Sir,  sir ! 

The     Player    (returning).       Command     me, 

madam. 
Anne.  I  will  wait 

A  little  longer,  lest  I  meet  once  more 


20  FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S    EYES 

That  ruffian  mob  or  any  of  the  dogs. 
These  sports  are  better  seen  from  balconies. 

The  Player.      Will  you  step  hither?     There's 
an  arbored  walk 
Sheltered  and  safe.      Should  they  come  by  again, 
You  may  see  all,  an't  like  you,  and  be  hid. 

Anne.     A    garden    there?       Come,    you    shall 
show  it  me. 

(  They  go  out  into  the  garden  on  the  right^  leav- 
ing the  door    shut.       Immediately    enter ^    in 
^  great    haste^    Mary    Fytton     and     William 

Herbert^  followed  by  Dickon^  who  looks  about 
and^  seeing  no  one^  goes  to  setting   things  in 
order. ) 
Mary.      Quick,  quick !   .    .   .   She   must   have 
seen  me.      Those  big  eyes. 
How  could  they  miss  me,  peering  as  she  was 
For  some  familiar  face  ?     She  would  have  known^ 
Even  before  my  mask  was  jostled  ofF 
In  that  wild  rabble   .    .    .  bears  and  bearish  men. 
Herbert.     Why  would  you  have  me  bring  you  ? 
Mary.  Why  ?     Ah,  why  ! 

Sooth,  once  I  had  a  reason  :    now  'tis  lost,  — 
Lost !      Lost  !      Call  out  the  bell-man. 

Dickon  (^seriously) ,  Shall  I  so  ? 

Herbert.      Nay,  nay ;  that  were  a  merriment 
indeed. 
To    cry  us    through   the  streets !        (To    Jldary.") 
You  riddling  charm. 


FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S    EYES  21 

Mary.      A  riddle,  yet  ?      You  almost   love  me, 

theric 
Herbert.     Almost  ? 

Mary.  Because  you  cannot  understand. 

Alas,  when  all's  unriddled,  the  charm  goes. 
Herbert.      Come,  you're  not  melancholy  ? 
Mary.  Nay,  are  you  ? 

But  should  Nan  Hughes  have  seen  us,  and  spoiled 
all  — 
Herbert.      How  could  she  so  ? 
Mary.  I  know  not   .    .    .   yet  I  know 

If  she  had  met  us,  she  could  steal  To-day, 
Golden  To-day. 

Herbert.  A  kiss  ;  and  so  forget  her. 

Mary.      Hush,  hush,  —  the  tavern-boy  there. 
(  JJ?  Dickon.^  Tell  me,  boy, — 

(To  Herbert.')     Some  errand,  now  5  a  roc's  egg  ! 

Strike  thy  wit. 
Herbert.     What   is't  you    miss  ?     Why,  so. 
The  lady's  lost 
A  very  curious  reason,  wrought  about 
With  diverse  broidery. 

Mary.  Nay,  'twas  a  mask. 

Herbert.      A  mask,  arch-wit  ?     Why  will  you 
mock  yourself 
And  all  your  fine  deceits  ?      Your  mask,  your  rea- 
son. 
Your  reason  with  a  mask ! 

Mary.  You  are  too  merry. 


22  FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S    EYES 

(To  Dickon.^     A  mask  it  is,  and  muffler  finely 
wrought 
With  little  amber  points  all  hung  like  bells. 
I  lost  it  as  I  came,  somewhere.  .  .  . 

Herbert.  Somewhere 

Between  the  Paris  Gardens  and  the  Bridge. 

Mary.      Or   below  Bridge  —  or   haply   in   the 

Thames ! 
Herbert.     No  matter  where,  so  you  do  bring 
it  back. 
Fly,  Mercury  !      Here's  feathers  for  thy  heels. 

{Giving  coinS) 
Mary  {aside).     Weights,  weights  ! 

{Exit   Dickon,) 
{Herbert  looks  about  him^  opens  the  door  of  the 
tap-room^  grows  troubled.      She  watches  him 
with  dissatisfaction^  seeming  to  warm  her  feet 
by  the  f re  meanwhile.) 
Herbert   {apart).     I   know   this    place.      We 
used  to  come 
Together,  he  and  I   .    .    . 

Mary  {apart).  Forgot  again. 

O  the  capricious  tides,  the  hateful  calms. 
And  the  too  eager  ship  that  would  be  gone 
Adventuring  against  uncertain  winds, 
For  some  new,  utmost  sight  of  Happy  Isles  ! 
Becalmed,  —  becalmed   .    .    .    But  I  will  break  this 
calm. 
{She  sees  the  lute  on  the  table ^  crosses  and  takes 


FORTUNE    AND    MEN'S    EYES  23 

it   up^    running   her  fingers   over   the    strings 
very  softly.      She  sits.^ 
Herbert.     Ah,  mermaid,  is  it  you  ? 
Mary.  Did  you  sail  far  ? 

Herbert.     Not  I;  no,  sooth.     (^Crossing  to  her.) 
Mermaid,  I  would  not  think. 
But  you  — 

Mary.        I  think  not.      I  remember  nothing. 
There's  nothing  in  the  world  but  you  and  me  ; 
All  else  is  dust.      Thou  shalt  not  question  me  5 
Or  if, —  but  as  a  sphinx  in  woman-shape  : 
And  when  thou  fail'st  at  answer,  I  shall  turn. 
And  rend  thy  heart  and  cast  thee  from  the  cliff. 

(She  leans   her   head  back  against  him^  and  he 
kisses  her.) 
So  perish  all  who  guess  not  what  I  am !    .    .    . 
Oh,  but  I  know  you  :  you  are  April-Days. 
Nothing  is  sure,  but  all  is  beautiful  ! 

{^She  runs  her  fingers  up  the  strings^  one   by   one^ 
and  list  ens  .^  speaking  to  the  lute.) 
Is  it  not  so  ?      Come,  answer.      Is  it  true  ? 
Speak,  sweeting,  since  I  love  thee  best  of  late. 
And  have  forsook  my  virginals  for  thee. 
Airs  beautiful  indeed  and  all  unsure  ? 
"  ^  "  .  .  .     (Did  you  hear?)     He*  s  fair  and  faith- 
less?     ''^  Ay.^^      {Speaking  with  the  lute.) 
Herbert.      Poor  oracle,  with  only  one  reply  !  — 
Wherein  'tis  unlike  thee. 

Mary.  Can  he  love  aught 


24  FORTUNE    AND    MEN'S    EYES 

So  well  as  his  own  image  in  the  brook^ 
Having  once  seen  it  F 

Herbert.  Ay ! 

Mary.  The  lute  saith  "  No.''  .  .  . 

0  dullard  !      Here  were  tidings,  would  )/ou  mark. 
What  said  I  ?      Oracle^  can  he  love  aught 

So  dear  as  his  own  image  in  the  hrook^ 
Having  once  looked?  .  .  .      No,  truly. 

{With  sudden  abandon^  Nor  can  I ! 

Herbert.      O  leave  this  game  of  words,  you 
thousand-tongued. 
Sing,  sing  to  me.      So  shall  I  be  all  yours 
Forever ;  —  or  at  least  till  you  be  mute  !    .    .    . 

1  used  to  wonder  he  should  be  thy  slave : 

I  wonder  now  no  more.     Your  ways  are  wonders ; 
You  have  a  charm  to  make  a  man  forget 
His  past  and  yours,  and  everything  but  you. 

Mary  (^speaking), 
"  When  daisies  pied  and  violets  blue 

And  lady-smocks  all  silver-white  "  — 
How  now  ? 

Herbert.     "  How  now  ?  "     That  song  .   ,   . 
thou  wilt  sing  that  ? 

Mary.      Marry,  what  mars  the  song  ? 

Herbert.  Have  you  forgot 

Who  made  it  \ 

Mary.  Soft,  what  idleness  !      So  fine  ? 

So  rude  ?    And  bid  me  sing  !    You  get  but  silence  ; 
Or,  if  I  sing,  —  beshrew  me,  it  shall  be     - 


FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S    EYES  25 

A  dole  of  song,  a  little  starveling  breath 
As  near  to  silence  as  a  song  can  be. 

(She  sings  under-breathy  fantastically  ,^ 
Say  how  many  kisses  be 
Lent  and  lost  twixt  you  and  me  ? 
'  Can  I  tell  when  they  begun  ?  ' 
A^(j7y,  but  this  were  prodigal: 
Let  us  learn  to  count  withaL 
Since  no  ending  is  to  spending^ 
Sum  our  riches^  one  by  one, 
'  Tou  shall  keep  the  reckonings 
Count  each  kiss  while  I  do  sing  J* 
Herbert.     Oh,  not  these  little  wounds.     You 
vex  my  heart; 
Heal  it  again  with  singing, — come,  sweet,  come. 
Into  the  garden  !      None  shall  trouble  us. 
This  place  has  memories  and  conscience  too  : 
Drown  all,   my  mermaid.     Wind   them   In  your 

hair 
And  drown  them,  drown  them  all. 

(^He  swings  open  the  garden-door  for  her.      At 
the  same  moment  Anne^s  voice   is  heard  ap- 
proaching,^ 
Anne  (without).  Some  music  there? 

Herbert.     Perdition  !     Quick,  -^ —  behind  me, 
love. 

(Swinging    the    door   shut    again^    and  looking 
through  the  crack.) 
Mary.     'Tis  she  — 


26  FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S    EYES 

Nan  Hughes,  'tis  she !      How  came  she  here  ?    By 

heaven, 
She  crosses  us  to-day.     Nan  Hughes  lights  here 
In  a  Bank  tavern  !     Nay,  I'll  not  be  seen. 
Sooner  or  later  it  must  mean  the  wreck 
Of  both   .    .    .   should  the  Queen  know. 

Herbert.  The  spite  of  chance  ! 

She  talks  with  some  one  in  the  arbor  there 
Whose   face   I   see  not.      Come,    here's   doors  at 
least. 

(jThey  cross    hastily.      Mary    opens  the  door   on 
the  left  and  looks  within . ) 
Mary.      Too  thick.    ...   I  shall  be  penned. 
But  guard  you  this 
And  tell  me  when  they're  gone.      Stay,  stay  ;  — 

mend  all. 
If  she  have  seen  me, —  swear  it  was  not  I. 
Heaven  speed  her  home,  with  her  new  body-guard  ! 
(Exit^  closing  door.      Herbert  looks  out  into  the 
garden.^ 
Herbert.     By  all  accurst  chances, —  none  but 
he! 

(^Retires  up  to  stand  beside  the  door,,  looking  out 
of    casement.       Reenter  from    the    garden^ 
jinne.^  followed  by  ne  Player.) 
Anne.      No,  'twas  some  magic  in  my  ears,  I 
think. 
There's  no  one  here.      (^Seeing  Herbert.) 

But  yes,  there's  some  one  here  :  — 


FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S    EYES  27 

The  innkeeper.      Are  you  — 

Saint  Catherine's  bones  ! 
My  Lord  of  Herbert.      Sir,  you  could  not  look 
More  opportune.      But  for  this  gentleman  — 

Herbert  {how'ing) .      My  friend,  this  long  time 
since,  — 

Anne.  Marry,  your  friend  ? 

The   Player    {regarding  Herbert  searchingly^ , 
This  long  time  since. 

Anne.  Nay,  is  it  so,  indeed? 

(^To  Herbert.)      My  day's  fulfilled  of  blunders  ! 
O  sweet  sir. 
How  can  I  tell  you  ?      But  I'll  tell  you  all 
If  you'll  but  bear  me  escort  from  this  place 
Where  none  of  us  belongs.      Yours  is  the  first 
Familiar  face  I've  seen  this  afternoon  ! 

Herbert  {apart).     A  sweet  assurance. 

{Aloud.)  But  you  seek   .    .    .  you  need 

Some   rest  —  some  cheer,  some  —  Will  you  step 
within  ?  {Indicating  tap-room.) 

The  tavern  is  deserted,  but  — 

Anne.  Not  here  ! 

I've  been  here  quite  an  hour.      Come,  citywards, 
To  Whitehall  !     I  have  had  enough  of  bears 
To  quench  my  longing  till  next  Whitsuntide. 
Down  to  the  river,  pray  you. 

Herbert.  Sooth,  at  once  ^ 

Anne.     At  once,  at  once. 

(^To  The  Player.^  I  crave  your  pardon,  sir. 


28  FORTUNE    AND    MEN'S    EYES 

For  sundering  your  friendships.      I've  heard  say 
A  woman  always  comes  between  two  men 
To  their  confusion.      You  shall  drink  amends 
Some  other  day.      I  must  be  safely  home. 

The   Player    (reassured  by  Herbert's  reluctanct 
to  go). 
It  joys  me  that  your  trials  have  found  an  end  ; 
And  for  the  rest,  I  wish  you  p-'^  perous  voyage; 
Which    needs    not,    with    such    halcyon    weather 
toward. 

Herbert      (apart) .        It    cuts  :     and    yet    he 
knows  not.      Can  it  pass  ? 

(To  him.)      Let   us    meet   soon.       I    have  —  I 
know  not  what 
To  say  —  nay,  no  import ;  but  chance  has  parted 
Our  several  ways  too  long.     To  leave  you  thus, 
Without  a  word  — 

Anne.  You  are  in  haste,  my  lord  ! 

By  the  true  faith,  here  are  two  friends  indeed  ! 
Two  lovers  crossed  :  and  I,  —  'tis  I  that  bar  them. 
Pray  tarry,  sir.      I  doubt  not  I  may  light 
Upon  some  link-boy  to  attend  me  home 
Or  else  a  drunken  prentice  with  a  club. 
Or  that  patched  keeper  strolling  from  the  Garden 
With  all  his  dogs  along ;  or  failing  them, 
A  pony  with  a  monkey  on  his  back. 
Or,  failing  that,  a  bear !      Some  escort,  sure, 
Such  as  the  Borough  offers  !     I  shall  look 
Part  of  a  pageant  from  the  Lady  Fair, 


FORTUNE    AND    MEN'S    EYES  29 

And   boast   for  three  full   moons,  "  Such   sights   I 

saw!" 
Truly,  'tis  new  to  me :   but  I  doubt  not 
I  shall  trick  out  a  mind  for  strange  adventure. 
As  high  as  —  Mistress  Fytton  ! 

Herbert.  Say  no  more, 

Dear  lady  !      I  entreat  you  pardon  me 
The  lameness  of  my  wit.      I'm  stark  adream ; 
You  lighted  here  so  suddenly,  unlooked  for 
Vision  in  Bankside.    .    ,    .   Let  me  hasten  you, 
Now  that  I  see  I  dream  not.      It  grows  late. 
Anne.     And  can  you   grant  me  such  a  length 

of  time  ? 
Herbert.      Length  ?       Say   Illusion !     Time  ? 
Alas,  'twill  be 
Only  a  poor  half-hour,  (^loudly)  a  poor  half-hour  ! 
{^Apart.^      Did  she  hear  that,  I  wonder  ? 
The   Player  {bowing  over  Anne' s  hand^ .    Not 
so,  madam ; 
A  little  gold  of  largess,  fallen  to  me 
By  chance. 

Herbert  {to  hini),     A  word  with  you  — 
{Apart, ^  O,  I  am  gagged  ! 

Anne  {to  The  Player').      You  go  with  us,  sir? 

{He  moves  towards  door  with  them.) 
The  Player.  No,  I  do  but  play 

Your  inn-keeper. 

Herbert   {apart^  despairingly).       The  eagle  is 
gone  blind. 


30  FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S   EYES 

(Exeunt,  leaving  doors  open.      They  are  seen  to 
go  down  the  walk  together.     At  the  street  they 
pause^  The  Player^  bowing  slowly^  then   turn- 
ing    back    towards    the    inn ;    Anne    holding 
Herbert* s  arm.       TVithin^  the  door  on  the  left 
opens  slightly^  then  Mary  appears.^ 
Mary.      'Tis  true.      My  ears  caught  silence,  if 
no  more. 
They're  gone.    .    .    . 

{She  comes  out  of  her  hiding-place  and  opens  the 
left-hand  casement   to  see    Anne  disappearing 
with  Herbert.^ 
She  takes  him  with  her  !    He'll  return  ? 
Gone,  gone,  without  a  word  ;  and  I  was  caged,  — 
And  deaf  as  well.      O,  spite  of  everything  ! 
She's  so  unlike.    .    .    .      How  long  shall  I  be  here 
To    wait    and    wonder  ?       He   with    her  —  with 
her! 

( The  Player^  having  come  slowly  back  to  the 
door^  hears  her  voice.  Mary  darts  towards 
the  entrance  to  look  after  Herbert  and  Anne, 
She  sees  him  and  recoils.  She  falls  back 
step  by  step^  while  he  stands  holding  the  door- 
posts with  his  hands,  impassive.) 
You!   ... 

The    Player.     Yes.    .    .    .    (^After    a   pause. ^ 

And  youo 
Mary.  Do  you  not  ask  me  why 

I'm  here? 


FORTUNE    AND    MEN'S    EYES  31 

The  Player.      I  am   not  wont    to    shun    the 
truth  : 
But  yet  I  think  the  reason  you  could  give 
Were  too  uncomely. 

Mary.  Nay  ;  — 

The  Player.  If  it  were  truth  ; 

If  it  were  truth  !      Although  that  likelihood 
Scarce  threatens. 

Mary.  So.     Condemned  without  a  trial. 

The  Player.      O,    speak   the   He   now.     Let 
there  be  no  chance 
For  my  unsightly  love,  bound  head  and  foot, 
Stark,  full  of  wounds  and  horrible,  —  to  find 
Escape  from  out  its  charnel-house ;   to  rise 
Unwelcome  before  eyes  that  had  forgot. 
And  say  it  died  not  truly.      It  should  die. 
Play  no  imposture  :   leave  it,  —  it  is  dead. 
I  have  been  weak  in  that  I  tried  to  pour 
The  wine  through  plague-struck  veins.      It  came 

to  life 
Over  and  over,  drew  sharp  breath  again 
In  torture  such  as't  may  be  to  be  born. 
If  a  poor  babe  could  tell.      Over  and  over, 
I  tell  you,  it  has  suffered  resurrection. 
Cheating  its  pain  with  hope,  only  to  die 
Over  and  over  ;  —  die  more  deaths  than  men 
The  meanest,  most  forlorn,  are  made  to  die 
By  tyranny  or  nature.    .    .    .   Now  I  see  all 
Clear.     And  I  say,  it  shall  not  rise  again. 


32  FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S    EYES 

I  am  as  safe  from  you  as  I  were  dead. 
I  know  you. 

Mary.  Herbert  — 

The  Player.  Do  not  touch  his  name. 

Leave  that ;  I  saw. 

Mary.  You  saw?     Nay,  what? 

The  Player.  The  whole 

Clear  story.      Not  at  first.      While  you  were  hid, 
I  took  some  comfort,  drop  by  drop,  and  minute 
By  minute.      (Dullard  !)     Yet  there  was  a  maze 
Of  circumstance  that  showed  even  then  to  me 
Perplext  and  strange.      You  here  unravel  it. 
All's  clear:   you  are  the  clew.      (^Turning  away.') 

Mary  ingoing  to  the  casement,^ 

(^Apart,^  Caged,  caged  1 

Does  he    know  all  ?      Why  were  those  walls  so 

dense  ? 
{To  him.)     Nan   Hughes  hath  seized  the  time  to 

tune  your  mind 
To  some  light  gossip.     Say,  how  came  she  here  ? 

The    Player.       All    emulation,  thinking    to 
match  you 
In  high  adventure  :  —  liked  it  not,  poor  lady  ! 
And  is  gone  home,  attended. 
(^Reenter  Dickon.) 

Dickon  (^to  Mary).  They  be  lost!  — 

Thy  mask  and  muffler ;  —  'tis  no  help  to  search. 
Some  hooker  would  'a'  swallowed  'em,  be  sure. 
As  the  whale  swallows  Jonas,  in  the  show. 


FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S    EYES  33 

Mary.     'Tis  nought:  I  care  not. 
Dickon  {looking  at  the  fir e^.      Hey,  it  wants   a 
log. 

(  JVhile  he  mends  the  fire^  humming^  The  Player 
stands  taking  thought.      Mary  speaks  apart, 
going  to  casement  again  to  look  out.^ 
Mary  {apart).      I  will  have  what  he  knows. 
To  cast  me  ofF:  — 
Not  thus,  not  thus.      Peace,  I  can  blind  him  yet, 
Or  he'll  despise  me.      Nay,  I  will  not  be 
Thrust  out  at  door  Hke  this.      I  will  not  go 
But  by  mine  own  free  will.     There  is  no  power 
Can  say  what  he  might  do  to  ruin  us. 
To  win  Will  Herbert  from  me,  —  almost  mine, 
And  I  all  his,  all  his  —  O  April-Days  !  — 
Well,  friendship  against  love  ?     I  know  who  wins. 
He  is  grown  dread.    .    .    .   But  yet  he  is  a  man. 

{Exit  Dickon  into  tap-room.) 
{To  The  Player^  suavely.)      Well,  headsman  ? 
{He  does  not  turn.) 
Mind  your  office  :   I  am  judged. 
Guilty,  was  it  not  so  ?  .    .    .   What  is  to  do. 
Do  quickly.    .    .    .    Do  you  wait  for  some  reprieve  ? 
Guilty,  you  said.      Nay,  do  you  turn  your  face 
To  give  me  some  small  leeway  of  escape  ? 
And  yet,  I  will  not  go   .    .    . 

{Coming  down  slowly.) 

Well,  headsman  ?   .    .    , 
You  ask  not  why  I  came  here.  Clouded  Brow, 


34  FORTUNE    AND    MEN'S    EYES 

Will  you  not  a^k  me  why  I  stay  ?      No  word  ? 

0  blind,  come  lead  the  blind  !      For  I,  I  too 
Lack  sight  and  every  sense  to  linger  here 
And  make  me  an  intruder  where  I  once 

Was  welcome,  oh  most  welcome,  as  I  dreamed. 
Look  on  me,  then.      I  do  confess,  I  have 
Too  often  preened  my  feathers  in  the  sun 
And  thought  to  rule  a  little,  by  my  wit. 

1  have  been  spendthrift  with  men's  offerings 
To  use  them  like  a  nosegay,  —  tear  apart. 
Petal  by  petal,  leaf  by  leaf,  until 

I  found  the  heart  all  bare,  the  curious  heart 

I  longed  to  see  for  once,  and  cast  away. 

And  so,  at  first,  with  you.    .    .    .   Ah,  now  I  think 

You're    wise.      There's  nought  so  fair,    so   .    .    . 

curious. 
So  precious-rare  to  find  as  honesty. 
'Twas  all  a  child's  play  then,  a  counting-off' 
Of  petals.      Now  I  know.    .    .    .    But  ask  me  why 
I  come  unheralded,  and  in  a  mist 
Of  circumstance    and  strangeness.      Listen,  love; 
Well  then,  dead  love,  if  you  will  have  it  so. 
I  have  been  cunning,  cruel,  —  what  you  will : 
And  yet  the  days  of  late  have  seemed  too  long 
Even  for  summer!      Something  called  me  here. 
And  so  I  flung  my  pride  away  and  came, 
A  very  woman  for  my  foolishness. 
To  say  once  more,  —  to  say   .    .    . 

The  Player.  Nay,  Til  not  ask. 


FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S    EYES  35 

What  lacks  ?      I  need  no  more,  you  have  done  well. 

'Tis  rare.      There  Is  no  man  I  ever  saw 

But  you  could   school  him.      Women    should  be 

players. 
You  are  sovran  in  the  art :   feigning  and  truth 
Are  so  commingled  in  you.      Sure,  to  you 
Nature's  a  simpleton  hath  never  seen 
Her  own  face  in  the  well.      Is  there  aught  else  ? 
To  ask  of  my  poor  calling  ? 

Mary.  I  deserved  it 

In  other  days.      Hear  how  I  can  be  meek. 
I  am  come  back,  a  foot-worn  runaway, 
Like  any  braggart  boy.      Let  me  sit  down 
And  take  Love's  horn-book  in  my  hands  again 
And  learn  from  the  beginning ;  —  by  the  rod. 
If  you  will  scourge  me,  love.      Come,  come,  for- 
give. 
I  am  not  wont  to  sue  :   and  yet  to-day 
I  am  your  suppliant,  I  am  your  servant. 
Your  link-boy,  ay,  your  minstrel :  ay,  —  wilt  hear  ? 
( Takes  up  the  lute^   and  gives  a  last  look  out 
of  the  casement.^ 
The  tumult  in  the  streets  is  all  apart 
With  the  discordant  past.      The  hour  that  is 
Shall  be  the  only  thing  in  all  the  world. 

{^Jpart.^       I  will  be  safe.      He'll  not  win  Her- 
bert from  me  ! 

(^Crossing  to  him.^ 
Will  you  have  music,  good  my  lord  .? 


36  FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S    EYES 

The  Player  {catching  the  lute  from  hei-) ,     Not 
that, 
Not    that  !       By    heaven,    you    shall    not,    .   .   . 
Nevermore. 
Mary.     So  .   .   .   But  you  speak  at  last.     You 
are,  forsooth, 
A  man  :  and  you  shall  use  me  as  my  due ;  — 
A  woman,  not  the  w^ind  about  your  ears  j 
A  woman  whom  you  loved. 

The  Player  {half-apart^  still  holding  the  lute) . 

Why  were  you  not 
That  beauty  that  you  seemed  ?   .   .   .   But  had  you 

been, 
'Tis  true,  you  would  have  had  no  word  for  me, — 
No  looks  of  love  ! 

Mary.  The  man  reproaches  me? 

The  Player.     Not  I  —  not    I.    .    .    .    Will 
Herbert,  what  am  I 
To  lay  this  broken  trust  to  you,  —  to  you. 
Young,  free,  and  tempted  :  April  on  his  way. 
Whom  all  hands  reach  for,  and  this  woman  here 
Had  set  her  heart  upon  ! 

Mary  What  fantasy  ! 

Surely  he  must  have  been  from  town  of  late. 
To  see  the  gude-folks  !     And  how  fare  they,  sir  ? 
Reverend  yeoman,  say,  how  thrive  the  sheep  ? 
What  did  the  harvest  yield  you  ?  —  Did  you  count 
The    cabbage    heads  ?    and    find    how    like    .    .    . 
nay,    nay ! 


FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S    EYES  37 

But  our  gude-wife,  did  she  bid  in  the  neighbors 
To  prove  them  that  her  husband  was  no  myth  ? 
Some  Puritan  preacher,  nay,  some  journeyman. 
To  make  you  sup  the  sweeter  with  long  prayers  ? 
This  were  a  rare  conversion,  by  my  soul ! 
From  sonnets  unto  sermons  :  —  eminent ! 

The  Player.     Oh,  yes,  your  scorn  bites  truly  : 

sermons  next. 
There     is     so     much     to    say.      But    it    must    be 

learned, 
And  I  require  hard  schooling,  dream  too  much 
On  what  I  would  men  were,  —  but  women  most. 
I  need  the  cudgel  of  the  task-master 
To  make  me  con  the  truth.     Yes,  blind,  you  called 

me. 
And  'tis  my  shame  I  bandaged  mine  own  eyes 
And    held    them    dark.      Now,   by    the    grace   of 

God, 
Or  haply  because  the  devil  tries  too  far, 
I  tear  the  blindfold  off,  and  I  see  all. 
I  see  you  as  you  are ;  and  in  your  heart 
The  secret  love  sprung  up  for  one  I  loved, 
A  reckless  boy  who  has  trodden  on  my  soul  — 
But  that's  a  thing  apart,  concerns  not  you. 
I  know  that  you  will  stake  your  heaven  and  earth 
To  fool  me,  —  fool  us  both. 

Mary  (with  idle  interest').     Why  were  you  not 
So  stern  a  long  time  since  ?     You're  not  so  wise 
As  I  have  heard  them  say. 


38  FORTUNE    AND    MEN'S    EYES 

The  Player  (^standing  by  the  chimney^.     Wise  ? 

Oh,  not  I. 
Who  was  so  witless  as  to  call  me  wise  ? 
Sure  he  had  never  bade  me  a  good-day 
And  seen  me  take  the  cheer.    .    .    . 

I  was  your  fool 
Too  long.    ...   I  am  no  longer  anything. 
Speak  :  what  are  you  ? 

Mary    {after    a   pause).       The    foolishest    of 

women  : 
A  heart  that  should  have  been  adventurer 
On  the  high  seas  ;   a  seeker  in  new  lands, 
To  dare  all  and  to  lose.      But  I  was  made 
A  woman. 

Oh,  you  see  !  — could  you  see  all. 
What  if  I  say   .   .   .  the  truth  is  not  so  far, 

(watching  him) 
Yet  farther  than  you  dream.      If  I  confess   .   .   . 
He  charmed  my  fancy   .   .   .   for  the  moment,  —  ay 
The  shine  of  his  fortunes  too,  the  very  name 
Of  Pembroke  ?   .  .  .  Dear  my  judge,  —  ah,  clouded 

brow 
And  darkened  fortune,  be  not  black  to  me  ! 
I'd  try  for  my  escape  j  the  window's  wide. 
No  one  forbids,  and  yet  I  stay  —  I  stay. 

Oh,  I  was  niggard,  once,  unkind  —  I  know, 
Untrusty  :  loved,  unloved  you,  day  by  day  : 
A  little  and  a  little,  —  why,  I  knew  not, 


FORTUNE    AND    MEN'S    EYES  39 

And  more,  and  wondered  why  ;  —  then  not  at  all : 

Drank  up  the  dew  from  out  your  very  heart, 

Like  the  extortionate  sun,  to  leave  you  parched 

Till,  with  as  little  grace,  I  flung  all  back 

In  gusts  of  angry  rain  !      I  have  been  cruel. 

But  the  spell  works ;  yea,  love,  the  spell,  the  spell 

Fed  by  your  fasting,  by  your  subtlety 

Past  all  men's  knowledge.  .    .  .  There  is  something 

rare 
About  you  that  I  long  to  flee  and  cannot :  — 
Some  mastery   .   .   .   that's  more  my  will  than  I. 

(^She  laughs  softly.      He  listens,^  looking  straight 
ahead^   not    at    her^    immobile^   but    suffering 
evidently.      She  watches  his  face  and  speaks 
with    greater    intensity.        Here    she    crosses 
nearer  and  falls  on  her  knees.^ 
Ah,  look  :   you  shall  believe,  you  shall  believe. 
Will  you  put  by  your  Music  ?      Was  I  that  ? 
Your  Music,  —  very  Music  ?    .    .    .   Listen,  then, 
Turn  not  so  blank  a  face.      Thou  hast  my  love. 
V\\  tell  thee  so  till  thought  itself  shall  tire 
And  fall  a-dreaming  like  a  weary  child,   .    .    . 
Only  to  dream  of  you,  and  in  its  sleep 
To   murmur   You.   .   .   .    Ah,  look   at   me,   love, 

lord   .   „   o 
Whom  queens  would  honor.     Read  these  eyes  you 

praised. 
That  pitied,  once, — that  sue  for  pity  now,  . 
But  look  !     You  shall  not  turn  from  me  — 


40  FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S    EYES 

The  Player.  Eyes,  eyes  !  — 

The  darkness  hides  so  much. 

Mary.  He'll  not  believe.   .   .    . 

What  can  I  do?     What  more,  —  what  more,  you 

.    .   .   man  ? 
I  bruise  my  heart  here,  at  an  iron  gate.    .   .   . 

(^She  regards  him  half  gloomily  without  rising. ^ 
Yet  there  is  one  thing  more.   .   .   .  You'll  take  me, 

now  ?  — 
My  meaning.    .    .    .  You  were  right.     For  once  I 

say  it. 
There  is  a  glory  of  discovery   (^ironically) 
To     the    black    heart  .    .    .   because    it    may    be 

known 
But  once,  —  but  once.   .   .    . 

I  wonder  men  will  hide 
Their  motives  all  so  close.     If  they  could  guess,  — 
It  is  so  new  to  feel  the  open  day 
Look  in  on  all  one's  hidings,  at  the  end. 
So.   .   .    .  You    were    right.       The    first   was    all 

a  lie : 

A  lie,  and  for  a  purpose 

Now,  —  (^she  rises    and   stands    off\  regarding  him 

abruptly)^ 
And  why,  I  know  not,  —  but  'tis  true,  at  last, 
I  do  believe  ...  I  love  you. 

Look  at  me  ! 

(^He  stands  by  the  fireside  against  the  chimney- 
piece.       She    crosses   to   him   with  passionate 


FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S    EYES  41 

appeal^  holding  out  her  arms.  He  turns  his 
eyes  and  looks  at  her  with  a  rigid  scrutiny. 
She  endures  it  for  a  second^  then  wavers ; 
makes  an  effort^  unable  to  look  away^  to  lift 
her  arms  towards  his  neck;  they  falter 
and  fall  at  her  side.  The  two  stand  spell- 
hound  by  mutual  recognition,  Then  she 
speaks  in  a  low  voice, ^ 

Mary.     Oh,  let  me  go  ! 

(^She  turns  her  head  with  an  effort^  —  gathers 
her  cloak  about  her^  then  hastens  out  as  if 
from  some  terror,^ 
(The  Player  is  alone  beside  the  chimney-piece. 
The  street  outside  is  darkening  with  twilight 
through  the  casements  and  upper  door.  There 
is  a  sound  of  rough-throated  singing  that 
comes  by  and  is  softened  with  distance.  It 
breaks  the  spell. ^ 

The  Player.     So;  it  is  over  .   .  .  now.    (^He 
looks  into  the  fire.) 

^^  Fair,  kind,  andtrue,^'    And  true!  ,  ,  ,  My  golden 

Friend. 
Those  two  .  .  .  together.  .  .  .  He  was  ill  at  ease., 
But  that  he  should  betray  me  with  a  kiss! 

By  this  preposterous  world   ...   I  am  in  need. 
Shall  there  be  no  faith  left  ?     Nothing  but  names  ? 
Then  he's  a  fool  who  steers  his  life  by  such. 


42  FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S    EYES 

Why  not  the  body-comfort  of  this  herd 

Of  creatures  huddled  here  to  keep  them  warm  ?  — ■ 

Trying  to  drown  out  with  enforced  laughter 

The  query  of  the  winds   .    .    .    unanswered  winds 

That  vex  the  soul  with  a  perpetual  doubt. 

What  holds  me  ?    .    .    .   Bah,  that  were  a  Cause, 

indeed ! 
To  prove  your  soul  one  truth,  by  being  it,  — 
Against  the  foul  dishonor  of  the  world  ! 
How  else  prove  aught  ?   .    .    . 

I  talk  into  the  air. 
And  at  my  feet,  my  honor  full  of  wounds. 
Honor  ?     Whose  honor?     For  I  knew  my  sin, 
And    she   .    .    .   had    none.      There's    nothing    to 
avenge. 
■    (^He  speaks  with  more    and  more   passion^  too 
distraught    to    notice    interruptions.        Enter 
Dickon^  with  a  tallow -dip.      He  regards  The 
Player  with  half-open    mouth  from   the  cor- 
ner ;   then  stands  by  the  casement^  leaning  up 
against  it  and  yawning  now  and  then.^ 
I  had  no  right  :  that  I  could  call  her  mine 
So  none  should  steal  her  from  me,  and  die  for't. 
There's  nothing  to  avenge   .    .    .    Brave  beggary! 
How  fit  to  lodge  me  in  this  home  of  Shows, 
With  all  the  ruffian  life,  the  empty  mirth. 
The  gross  imposture  of  humanity, 
Strutting  in  virtues  it  knows  not  to  wear. 


FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S   EYES 


43 


Knave  in  a  stolen  garment  —  all  the  same  — 
Until  it  grows  enamored  of  a  life 
It  was  not  born  to,  —  falls  a-dream,  poor  cheat, 
In  the  midst  of  its  native  shams, —  the  thieves  and 

bears 
And  ballad-mongers  all  !    .    .    .    Of  such  am  I. 

(^Reenter  Tobias  and  one  or  two  taverners. 
Tobias  regards  The  Player^  who  does  not 
notice  any  one^  —  then  leads  off'  Dickon  by 
the  ear.  Exeunt  into  tap-room.  The  Player 
goes  to  the  casement.^  pushes  it  wide  open^  and 
gazes  out  at  the  sky. 
Is  there  nought  else?  ...  I  could  make  shift  to 

bind 
My  heart  up  and  put  on  my  mail  again, 
To  cheat  myself  and  death  with  one  fight  more. 
If  I  could  think  there  were  some  worldly  use 
For  bitter  wisdom. 

But  I'm  no  general. 
That  my  own  hand-to-hand  with  evil  days 
Should  cheer  my  doubting  thousands   .    .    . 

Tm  no  more 
Than  one  man  lost  among  a  multitude ; 
And  in  the  end  dust  swallows  them  —  and  me, 
And  the  good   sweat  that  won  our  victories. 
Who  sees  ?     Or  seeing,  cares  ?     Who  follows  on  ? 
Then  why  should  my  dishonor  trouble  me. 
Or  broken  faith  in  him  ?      What  is  it  suffers  ? 
And  why  ?     Now  that  the  moon  is  turned  to  blood 


44  FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S    EYES 

(i/<?  turns  towards  the    door   with  involuntary 
longings  and  seems  to  listen.^ 
No   .   .   .  no,  he  will   not   come.      Well,  I  have 

nought 
To  do  but  pluck  from  me  my  bitter  heart. 
And  live  without  it. 

(^Reenter  Dickon  with  a  tankard  and  a  cup. 
He  sets  them  down  on  a  small  table ;  this  he 
pushes  towards  The  Player^  who  turns  at  the 
noise,) 

So   ...  ?     Is  it  for  me  ? 
Dickon.      Ay,  on  the  score  !     I  had  good  sight 
o'  the  bear. 
Look,    here's    a    sprig    was    stuck    on    him    with 
pitch ;  — 

{Rubbing  the  sprig  on  his  sleeve) 
I  caught  it  up,  —  from  Lambeth  marsh,  belike. 
Such    grow    there,    and    I've     seen     thee    cherish 
such. 
The  Player.      Give  us  thy  posy. 

{He  comes  back  to  the  fire  and  sits  in  the  chair 

near  by,      Dickon  gets  out  the  iron   lantern 

from   the  corner,) 

Dickon.  Hey  !     It  wants  a  light. 

(  The  Player  seems  to  listen  once  more^  his  face 

turned  towards  the  door.      He  lifts  his  hand 

as  if  to  hush   Dickon^  lets  it  fall^  and  looks 

hack  at   the  fire.      Dickon  regards  him  with 

shy  curiosity  and  draws  nearer.) 


FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S    EYES  45 

Dickon.     Thou  wilt  be  always  minding  of  the 
fire   ,    .    . 
Wilt  thou  not  ? 

The  Player.     Ay. 
Dickon.  It  likes  me,  too. 

The  Player.  So  ? 

Dickon.  Ay.   .   .    . 

I  would  I  knew  what  thou  art  thinking  on 
When  thou  dost  mind  the  fire.   .    .    . 

The  Player.  Wouldst  thou  ? 

Dickon.  Ay. 

(^Sound    of  footsteps    outside,       A  group    ap- 
proaches the  door?) 
Oh,  here  he  is,  come  back  ! 

The  Player  (rising  with  passionate  eagerness^. 

Brave  lad  —  brave  lad  / 
Dickon  (singing). 

Hang  out  your  lanthorns^  trim  your  lights 
To  save  your  days  from  knavish  nights  ! 
(He   plunges^  with    his   lantern^    through    the 
doorway^    stumbling    against    Wat    Burrow^ 
who    enters^    a   sorry  figure^   the    worse  for 
wear,) 
Wat    (sourly).      Be   the   times    soft,  that  you 
must  try  to  cleave 
Way  through  my  ribs  as  tho'  I  was  the  moon  ?  — 
And  you  the  man-wi'-the-lanthorn,  or  his  dog  ?  — 
You  bean  !   .    .    (Exit  Dickon,       Wat  shambles  in 
and  sees  The  Player,) 


46  FORTUNE    AND    MEN'S    EYES 

What,  you  sir,  here  ? 
The  Player.     Ay,  here,  good  Wat.      {While 
JVat  crosses  to  the  table  and  gets  himself  a  chair ^ 
The  Player  looks  at  him  as  if  with  a  new  con- 
sciousness of  the  surroundings.      After  a  time  he 
sits  as  before.      Reenter  Dickon  and  curls  up  on 
the  floor .^  at  his  feet.^ 
Wat.      O  give  me  comfort,  sir.      This  cursM 
day,  — 
A  wry,  damned  .  .  .  noisome.  .  .  .  Ay,  poor  Nick, 

poor  Nick ! 
He's    all    to    mend  —  Poor   Nick  !       He's   sorely 

maimed. 
More  than  we'd  baited  him  with  forty  dogs. 
'Od's  body  !      Said  I  not,  sir,  he  would  fight  ? 
Never  before  had  he,  in  leading-chain. 
Walked  out  to  take  the  air  and  show  his  parts.  .  .  ♦ 
'Went  to  his  noddle  like  some  greenest  gull's 
That's  new  come  up  to  town.  .  .  .  The  prentices 
Squeaking  along  like  Bedlam,  he  breaks  loose 
And  prances  me  a  hey,  —  I  dancing  counter  ! 
Then  such  a  cawing  'mongst  the  women  !     Next, 
The  chain  did  clatter  and  enrage  him  more  ;  — 
You  would  'a'  sworn  a  bear  grew  on  each  link, 
And  after  each  a  prentice  with  a  cudgel,  — 
Leaving  him  scarce  an  eye !      So,  howling  all, 
We  run  a  pretty  pace  .   .   .  and  Nick,  poor  Nick, 
He  catches  on  a  useless,  stumbling  fry 
That  needed  not  be  born,  —  and  bites  into  him. 


FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S    EYES  47 

And   then  .  .  .  the  Constable   .    .    .   And  now,  no 

show  ! 
The  Player.      Poor  Wat !   .   .   .  Thou  went- 

est  scattering  misadventure 
Like  comfits  from  thy  horn  of  plenty,  Wat. 

Wat.      Ay,    thank    your   worship.       You    be 

best  to  comfort.      (^He  pours  a  mug  of  ale.) 
No  show  to-morrow  !      Minnow  Constable.   .    .    . 
I'm  a  jack-rabbit  strung  up  by  my  heels 
For  every  knave  to  pinch  as  he  goes  by  ! 
Alas,  poor  Nick,  bear  Nick   .    .    .   oh,    think  on 

Nick. 
The  Player.     With  all  his  fortunes  darkened 

for  a  day,  — 
And  the  eye  o'   his  reason,  sweet  intelligencer. 
Under  a  beggarly  patch.  ...  I  pledge  thee,  Nick. 
Wat.      Oh,  you  have  seen  hard  times,  sir,  with 

us  all. 
Your  eyes  lack  lustre,  too,  this  day.   What  say  you  ? 
No  jesting.    .    .    .   What  ?     I've  heard  of  marvels 

there 
In  the  New  Country.      There  would  be  a  knop- 

hole 
For  thee  and  me.     There  be  few  Constables 
And  such  unhallowed  fry.    .    .    .   An  thou  wouidst 

lay 
Thy  wit  to  mine  —  what  is't  we  could  not  do  ? 
Wilt  turn't  about  ?      (^Leans  towards  him  in  cordial 

confidence.^ 


48  FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S    EYES 

Nay,  you  there,  sirrah  boy, 
Leave  us  together  ;   as  'tis  said  in  the  play, 
'  Come,  leave  us,  Boy  ! ' 

(Dickon  does  not  move.      He  gives  a  sigh  and 

leans  his  head  against  The  Player's  knee^  his 

arms    around   his    legs.       He    sleeps.       The 

Player  gazes  sternly  into  the  fire^  while  Wat 

rambles  on ^  growing  drowsy.) 

Wat.     The  cub   there    snores    good   counsel. 

When  all's  done, 

What    a   bubble   is   ambition  !   .  .  .     When  all's 

done  .   . 
What's  yet  to  do  ?   .  .  .  Why,  sleep.   .  .  .  Yet 

even  now 
I  was  on  fire  to  see  myself  and  you 
OfF  for  the  Colony  with  Raleigh's  men. 
I've  been  beholden  to  'ee.   .  .  .  Why,  for  thee 
I  could  make  shift  to  suffer  plays  o'  Thursday. 
Thou'rt  the  best  man  among  them,  o'  my  word. 
There's  other  trades  and  crafts  and  qualities 
Could  serve  ...  an  thou  wouldst  lay  thy  wit  to 

mine. 
Us  two !   ...  us  two  !   .   .   . 

The  Player   {apart.^  to  the  fire') .     "  Fair,  kind, 

and  true."   .   .   . 
Wat.  .   .   .  Poor  Nick  ! 

(He  nods  over  his  ale.  There  is  muffled  noise 
in  the  tap-room.  Some  one  opens  the  door  a 
second^  letting  in  a  stave  of  a  song^  then  slams 


FORTUNE   AND    MEN'S    EYES  49 

the  door  shut.  The  Player^  who  has  turned^ 
gloomily^  starts  to  rise.  Dickon  moves  in  his 
sleep^  sighs  heavily^  and  settles  his  cheek 
against  The  Player'' s  shoes.  The  Player  looks 
down  for  a  moment.  Then  he  sits  again^ 
looking  now  at  the  fire^  now  at  the  boy^  whose 
hair  he  touches.) 
The  Player.  So,  heavy-head.  You  bid  me 
think  my  thought 

Twice  over ;  keep  me  by,  a  heavy  heart. 

As  ballast  for  thy  dream.    Well,  I  will  watch  .  .  . 

Like  slandered  Providence.     Nay,  I'll  not  be 

The  prop  to  fail  thy  trust  untenderly, 

After  a  troubled  day.   .   .   . 

Nay,  rest  you  here. 


CURTAIN. 


POEMS 


THE   SOURCE 

I  KNOW,  whatever  God  may  be, 
All  Life  it  was  that  lighted  me 
This  little  flame  whereby  I  see. 

I  know  All  Strength  did  stir  this  hand 
To  serve  somehow  the  poor  command 
Of  whatsoe'er  I  understand. 

And  from  All  Love  there  throbs  the  stress 
Of  pity  and  of  wistfulness 
Both  to  be  blessM  and  to  bless. 

Then  by  the  Source  that  still  doth  pour 
On  star  and  glow-worm  reckoned  for, 
I  will  have  more  and  ever  more! 


(53) 


54  POEMS 


THE    QUIET 

NOW  the  roads,  hushed  with  dark. 
Lead  the  homeward  way, 
I  will  rest ;  I  will  hark 

What  the  weeds  can  say  ; 
Wondering  in  the  afterglow, 
Heart's-ease  of  the  day. 

One  day  more,  one  day  more. 

Ay,  if  it  were  new  ! 
There  the  city  smoke  goes  soft. 

Melting  in  the  blue ; 
And  the  highways,  vext  with  dust, 

Heal  them  in  the  dew. 

Am  I  wise  —  am  I  dull 

To  put  ofF  despair, 
But  because  the  mist  floats  up 

From  the  pastures  there. 
Like  the  fellow  breath  of  toil, 

Warm  upon  the  air  ? 

One  day  more,  —  one  day  more ; 

Ay,  and  what  to  come? 
Nothing  answers,  though  I  doubt; 

All  the  trees  are  dumb  : 


POEMS  55 

But  the  primrose  stands  alight. 
And  the  flocks  are  home. 

Underneath  the  little  moon. 

Sharp  and  sweet  to  see. 
All  the  warm,  listless  herbs 

Send  a  breath  to  me ; 
And  the  fields  bide,  in  peace, 

Harvest-time  to  be. 

Still  the  shadows  close  and  come. 

Like  a  friendly  herd. 
And  the  summer  twilight  broods 

Tranquil  as  a  bird  ; 
And  the  brook  tells  her  quest. 

By  the  silver  word. 

Still  the  murmurs  overflow, 

Fold  me  with  a  spell; 
And  the  distance  sends  a  call 

Dimly,  in  the  bell   .    .    . 
When  to  pipe, —  when  to  weep. 

Do  I  know  so  well  ? 

I  have  seen  drought  and  dearth. 

Yet  the  Spring's  secure; 
And  the  work  was  long,  and  lone  5 

But  the  past  is  sure. 
And  the  hill-tops  see  beyond, 

And  the  stars  endure. 


56  POEMS 

Often  when  the  thing  I  wrought 

Wore  not  as  I  would, 
When  my  need  had  left  me  bare 

To  the  season's  mood, 
Yet  the  heavy  heart  in  me 

Saw  that  it  was  good. 

I  have  seen  Joy  take  leave 

With  a  bitter  guise : 
Griefs  have  had  a  smile  for  me. 

When  I  met  their  eyes. 
Who  shall  know  with  what  new  gift 

Life  may  make  me  wise  ? 

Be  it  savors  of  the  dusk 

Sooth  my  care  in  me, 
Or  the  trees,  that  bid  me  wait 

What  the  hills  foresee. 
There  the  fields  bide  in  peace 

Harvest  yet  to  be. 

Oh,  the  wiser  way  of  them  ! 

Doubt  has  nought  to  say. 
Shall  I  reason  deeper,  I, 

Moulded  from  the  clay  ? 
Rather  will  I  trust  the  dark, 

Heart's-case  of  the  day. 


POEMS  57 


THE  PSYCHE   IN   THE    NICHE 

I  KNOW  not  by  what  way  I  came 
To  poise  the  silver  singing  flame 
Uplifted  here;  and  though  I  guess, 
It  is  a  lonely  blessedness. 
But  bowered  white  with  spheral  calms, 
I  see  the  wild-flowers  and  the  palms 
They  offer —  passing  by  the  shrine  — 
Before  whose  need  even  I  may  shine. 
An  almoner  of  peace  not  mine. 

I  know  not  why  it  gives  them  ease     ' 
To  bring  me  all  their  memories ; 
Or  why  I  seem,  to  men  forspent, 
A  mystical  enlightenment. 
But  since  'tis  so,  be  sure  I  take 
Their  sorrow,  gladly,  for  love's  sake. 
I  bind  their  burdens  in  a  sheaf ; 
I  hold  my  arms  out  unto  grief 
And  hallow  it,  with  flower  and  leaf. 

I  keep  the  broken  things  that  were 
Too  many,  for  a  wanderer  : 
The  hope  outworn,  the  heavier  stress. 
The  savors  of  rare  bitterness 


58  POEMS 

From  dreams  too  fine  for  daily  bread  ; 

And  in  my  heart  their  wounds  are  red. 
The  spirit's  mute  indwelling  tear 
Is  mine ;  nor  could  I  hold  as  dear 
The  first  rapt  snowdrop  of  the  year ! 

They  pass  and  pass.      And  sweet  it  is 

To  guard  unheeded  mysteries, 

Like  roots  that  Spring  shall  bring  to  be 

A  thousand-petaled  fragancy  ! 

And  sweet  it  is  to  be  the  cool, 

Forgotten  haunt,  all  beautiful 
For  once,  unto  the  eyes  of  pain 
That,  healed  once  with  living  rain, 
Pass  by  and  never  come  again. 

Sometimes  the  taper  shrinks  and  flares 
Beneath  a  whirlwind  of  despairs 
That  poise  and  circle,  night  and  day ; 
And  scarce  my  anguished  fingers  may 
Withhold  a  little,  lovely  spark 
From  that  fierce  hunger  of  the  Dark,  — 
The  outcry  of  some  groaning  deep 
Calling  upon  me  without  sleep, 
That  I  let  fall  the  light,  and  weep  ! 

And  weep  I  would    .   .   .   save  that  I  must 
The  more,  the  more,  lift  eyes  of  trust 


POEMS  59 

(As  sometimes  you  may  smile  into 

The  folding  sky,  unanswering  blue) 

For  very  need  of  loyalty, 

To  something  that  I  never  see 

But  love,  although  it  give  no  sign  : 
Some  radiance  hid,  some  Heart,  divine, 
That  is  far  lonelier  than  mine. 


6o  POEMS 


I   SHALL   ARISE 

YOU  doubt.     And  yet,  O  you  who  walk  your 
ways 
Glad  of  your  very  breath  ! 
Look  back  along  the  days: 
Have  you  not  tasted  death  ? 

What  of  the  hour  of  anguish,  over-past. 

So  fierce,  so  lone. 

That  even  now  the  Soul  looks  back  aghast 

At  sorrow  of  its  own  : 

The  pierced  hands  and  stark, — 

The  eyes  gone  dark  ? 

You  who  have  known 

And  trodden  down  the  fangs  of  such  defeat. 

Did  you  not  feel  some  veil  of  flesh  sore  rent, — 

Then,  wonderment  ? 

Did  you  not  find  it  sweet 

To  live,  still  live,  —  to  see,  to  breathe  again, 

Victorious  over  pain  ? 

Did  you  not  feel  once  more,  as  darkness  went. 

Upon  your  forehead,  cold  with  mortal  dew. 

The  daybreak  new  ? 

And  far  and  new,  some  eastern  breath  of  air 

From  that  rapt  Garden  where 


POEMS  6i 

The  lilies  stood  new-risen,  fragranter 
Than  myrrh  ? 

"  Death,  Death,  was  this  thy  sting  — 

This  bitter  thing  ? 

Can  it  be  past  ? 

Only  I  know  there  was  one  agony, 

One  strait  way  to  pass  by, 

A  stress  that  could  not  last. 

And  in  such  conflict,  something  had  to  die   ... 

It  was  not  I." 


62  POEMS 


THE    KNOT 

I   DID  not  love  you,  and  I  ever  said 
I  did  not  love  you.      So  the  end  was  told. 
How  did  it  happen  with  so  strait  a  theme 
The  days  could  play  their  winding  harmonies, 
With  ritornello  ?      Oh,  I  hated  me, 
That  when  I  loved  you  not,  yet  I  could  feel 
Some  charm  in  me  the  deeper  for  your  love ; 
Some  singing-robe  invisible  —  and  spun 
Of  your  own  worship  —  fold  me  silverly 
In  very  moonlight,  so  that  I  walked  fair 
When  you  were  by,  who  had  no  wish  to  be 
The  fairer  for  your  eyes !      But  at  some  cost 
Of  other  life  the  hyacinth  grows  blue. 
And  sweetens  ever.    .    .    .   So  it  is  with  us. 
The  sadder  race.      I  would  have  fled  from  you ; 
And  yet  I  felt  some  fibre  in  myself 
Binding  me  here,  to  search  one  moment  yet  — 
The  only  well  that  gave  me  back  a  star,  — 
Your  eyes  reflecting.      And  I  grew  aware 
How  worship  that  must  ever  spend  and  burn. 
Will  have  its  deity,  from  gold  or  stone; 
Till  that  fain  womanhood  that  would  be  fair 
And  lovable,  —  the  hunger  of  the  plant. 
Against  my  soul's  commandment  reached  and  took 
The  proffered  fruit,  more  potent  day  by  day. 


POEMS  63 

Oh,  it  was  not  an  artful  lowered  brow! 

The  lifted  eyelash  would  have  seemed  to  you   ^ 

Desirable,  or  shadowed  backward  look. 

I  warn  you  in  a  dream.      My  own  heart  hears. 

Cold  and  far-ofF,  unhastened,  curious, 

A  sea-plant  fed  with  alien  element,  — 

Watching  through  twilight  eyes  some  underwave. 

Will  you  not  go  ?   .    .    . 

And  yet,  why  will  you  go  ? 


64  POEMS 


GHOST 

IF  you  are  loath  to  have  me  standing  here 
Gray  on  your  dark,  a  blur  against  the  noon, 
Why  did  you  make  me  This  ?  .   .    .  I  cannot  choose 
But  face  you  so  with  unaccusing  eyes 
Of  knowledge,  now  I  see  you  as  you  are,  — 
To  wonder  how  I  saw  you  as  I  did, 
Too  long  unknowing.      I  am  filled  with  wonder, 
Poising  between  the  Outer  Place  and  you. 
Held  changeless  with  the  laughter  dimly  here, 
So  sudden  blasted.     Yes,  and  I  would  go, 
If  it  might  be ;  but  this  one  gift  it  seems 
I  may  not  bribe  of  death  or  destiny. 
I  cannot  buy  you  peace  with  aught  I  have. 
Even  forgiveness   .    .    .   now  that  all  is  done.    *\ 
That  was  the  last  way  to  be  rid  of  me. 
Not  willingly  I  gaze  on  you  and  Hate, 
With  this  same  "  Wherefore,  wherefore  ?  "     It  is 

true 
The  murdered  heart  will  ever  bleed  again, 
When  one  draws  near :  no  other  touch,  but  one. 
Can  start  the  bitter  drops  from  dead  amaze  ! 

You  who  would  have  me  gone  —  both  then  and 

now  — 
I  would  be  gone  from  you.      And  I  would  lose 


POEMS  65 

This  gleam  of  stricken  laughter  from  my  eyes ; 
Because  death  made  me  older,  and  I  see 
How  little  cause  there  was  in  me  for  mirth. 
Only  I  never  guessed  ;   I  was  so  dull  — 
Looking  for  love  —  and  knew  not  of  this  thing. 
I  see  all  now.    .    .    .    Ah^  Silent  One^  how  long 
Must  we  look  on  each  other^face  to  face? 


66  POEMS 


IN   THE   SILENCE 

WHERE  didst  Thou  tarry,  Lord,  Lord, 
Who  heeded  not  my  prayer  ? 
All  the  long  day,  all  the  long  night, 
I  stretched  my  hands  to  air. 

"There  was  a  bitterer  want  than  thine 

Came  from  the  frozen  North ; 
Laid  hands  upon  My  garment's  hem 

And  led  Me  forth. 

"  It  was  a  lonely  Northern  man  : 

Where  there  was  never  tree 
To  shed  its  comfort  on  his  heart, 

There  he  had  need  of  Me. 

"  He  kindled  us  a  little  flame 

To  hope  against  the  storm  ; 
And  unto  him,  and  unto  Me, 

The  light  was  warm." 

And  yet  I  called  Thee,  Lord,  Lord — . 

Who  answered  not,  nor  came : 
All  the  long  day,  and  yesterday, 

I  called  Thee  by  Thy  name. 


POEMS  67 

"  There  was  a  dumb,  unhearing  grief 

Spake  louder  than  thy  word. 
There  was  a  heart  called  not  on  Me ; 

But  yet  I  heard. 

"The  sorrow  of  a  savage  man 

Shaping  him  gods,  alone. 
Who  found  no  love  in  the  shapen  clay 

To  answer  to  his  own. 

"  His  heart  knew  what  his  eyes  saw  not ; 

He  bade  Me  stay,  and  eat ; 
And  unto  him,  and  unto  Me, 

The  cup  was  sweet. 

"  Too  long  we  wait  for  thee  and  thine, 

In  sodden  ways  and  dim. 
And  where  the  man's  need  cries  on  Me, 

There  have  I  need  of  him. 

"  Along  the  borders  of  despair 

Where  sparrows  seek  no  nest. 
Nor  ravens  food,  I  sit  at  meat, 

—  The  unnamed  Guest," 


68  POEMS 


THE    SURVIVOR 


I  WILL  not  drown  my  day  in  grief, 
But  I  shall  breast  the  tide,  and  know  ; 
And  knowledge  shall  not  make  me  brief, 
But  I  will  eat  thereof  and  grow. 

One  happiness  shall  not  possess 
The  freeborn  soul  I  was  before ; 
But  I  will  drink  down  happiness 
With  a  good  heart,  and  call  for  more  ! 

My  brain  may  crave  for  knowledge,  chief, 
Though  I  am  more  than  brain  indeed ; 
My  present  need  will  have  its  grief. 
Though  I  am  more  than  present  need. 

And  heart,  with  hunger  never  less, 
May  scorn  all  ministries  apart, 
Imploring  for  its  happiness  : 
But  I  am  greater  than  my  heart. 


POEMS  69 

THE    VIOLIN    WITHHELD 

I 

THE  Song,  at  last  unfold.ed,  curve  on  curve. 
Blooms  to  completion,  and  as  lilies  close, 
Folds  it  in  silence.      So,  with  all  the  light, 
It  goes   .    .    . 
No  echo  more;  the  memory  must  serve, 

0  vain  to  hark  !  — 

The  sweet,  unpitying  reticence  of  night  : 
Silence  again,  and  dark. 

To  hear  a  music  waning  from  my  need. 

It  is  to  me 

Bereavement.      So  the  native  shores  recede 

With  all  the  faces  dearest  to  a  heart, 

When  it  is  time  to  part. 

Not  to  be  stayed,  —  fading  relentlessly. 

1  watch  the  waters  widen,  I  who  know 
How  far  I  go. 

II 

All  gone,  all  dark,  the  welcome  and  the  dream 
Of  a  lost  godhead  that  was  mine  indeed; 
Some  source  of  all  remembrances  supreme. 
And  common  with  the  planets  and  the  seed. 


70  POEMS 

Nigh  to  the  heart  of  Light,  I  heard  it  send 

Light  throbbing  without  end 

Through  mist  on  mist, — 

Colors  and  calls  and  echoed  potencies 

For  earth  and  moon  and  seas. 

Hooded  with  tempest,  hovered  at  my  wrist 

The  falcon  lightning.    .    .    .   Oh,  I  heard  and  saw 

Familiar  glories,  greeted  with  no  awe, 

But  human  tears  : 

The  ebb  and  flow  of  tide  on  tide  of  years ; 

The  days  like  petals  budding  and  unfurled; 

The  building  of  the  World. 

And  then  the  making,  —  from  what  troubled  clay, 

Veined  with  the  reddest  dawn  of  summer  day, 

Sun-kindled  with  the  flame  to  be,  to  seek, — 

The  Wonderful  and  Weak  ! 

Then,  for  the  little  hour,  a  vagrant  god 

Brooding  upon  resplendent  memories 

The  while  he  rests  beside  his  path  untrod, 

With  shadowed  eyes, 

I  too  —  I  too  looked  forth  upon  the  Earth, 

A  child  of  royal  birth. 

And  felt  the  proud  assurance  of  my  own, 

In  face  of  all  wild  beauty  ; —  none  so  wild 

Or  beautiful,  but  had  for  me,  the  child. 

Some  look  of  home  ;   for  me  — 

With  stranger  ways,  and  threadbare  and  alone, 

And  shod  so  painfully. 


POEMS  71 

"  I  knew  you,  Glories,  in  some  outer  place. 
Oh,  scorn  not  me,  you  rapturous  wayside  face 
Of  rose,  that  hast  the  lore  from  that  brown  earth. 
What  it  is  worth 

To  thrill  you  so  and  flush  you  fairer  far 
Than  human  faces  are. 
Flushing  so  transiently. 

Rich  breath,  the  life  I  was  and  I  shall  be  — 
Some  day  when  I  am  come  into  my  own  — 
Looks   on   you   now,  through   eyes  that   compre- 
hend 
Beginning  wrought  with  end, 
Or  ever  you  were,  and  when  you  shall  be  gone ; 
(And  whither,  what  wind  knows  ?) 
Yea,  dear,  my  Rose." 

Clear  sung.      But  while  I   muse,  with  eager  eyes 

on 
The  vision  that  fulfills. 

The  one  wild-bee  that  showed  me  pathway  home 
Is  gone  with  daylight :  down  the  mists  are  come 
To  cheat  me  out  of  knowledge  of  the  hills, 
And  hide  horizon. 

Ill 

My  Violin,  if  I  could  call  thee  mine. 

Interpreter, 

I  dream  all  ways  were  plain,  all  lovelier. 


72  POEMS 

Through  that  soothsay  of  thine; 

And  how  I  should  be  led 

By  the  sure  quest  of  such  a  golden  thread, 

Through  all  vext  mazes  ;  beckoned  along 

Through  Dark,  a  glory,  —  Silence,  mother  song, 

Where  harbors  every  omen  that  eludes. 

The  hidden  tryst  of  all  beatitudes, 

All  joys  that  none  may  capture  or  foresee. 

And  it  will  never  be. 

Oh,  but  some  clew  there  must  be  here  to  wind 

Through  these  appalling  darknesses,  that  bind 

The  baffled  heart  in  with  dismay  and  doubt ; 

To  lead  us  out 

Unto  a  source,  a  first  all-meaning  Word, 

Sure  to  enfold  like  some  dear  blinding  hand 

Of  love  shut  in  upon  the  rebel  bird 

That  cannot  understand  ! 

Some  farther  voice  must  say 

The  path  is  there,  though  it  be  far  withdrawn ; 

As  if  a  child  should  point  us  out  the  way 

To  Eden,  in  the  dawn. 

And  for  the  lives  that  own  nor  clew  nor  seer 

To  tell  the  meaning  clear. 

Whom  Beauty  startles  as  a  newcomer 

Shy  in  the  door,  —  and  they  as  shy  to  her  — 

For  whom  her  foreign  speech 

Wakens  a  wistful  pain  too  strange  to  teach. 


POEMS  -Ji 

For  them  the  groping  thought, 

Unvalued  and  unsought, 

Lives  dark  :   until  the  chance  interpreter, 

The  Song  unfolding  to  a  soundless  call. 

Most  wonderful,  says  all ; 

At  last,  says  all —  .    .    .   and  then, 

As  lilies  fold  again. 

Even  with  the  day  that  shone,  — 

Is  gone. 

IV 

Yet,  is  it  wasted,  that  which  wells  unseen,  — 

Escape  that  might  have  been  ? 

The  voice  withheld,  can  vision  wither  so  ? 

Shall  not  the  risen  longing  overflow 

Unto  the  needs 

Of  joyless  duties,  thronging  parched  and  low 

Along  the  days,  like  weeds  ? 

May  it  not  be,  for  them  that  find  no  speech. 

The  life  unlived,  the  love  unloved,  the  stress 

Of  thwarted  songfulness. 

The  very  reach 

Of  heart's  desire,  the  utmost  urge  of  want. 

Shall  find  a  way  to  grace 

Poor  hours,  grown  dull  and  gaunt 

With  longing  for  new  day. 

For  sight  of  some  far  place  ?  — 

Dreamers  of  destined  joy  gone  all  astray. 


74  POEMS 

(Heart's  dim  possession  that  the  hands  resign,  — 
My  Violin,  not  mine  !) 

Ah,  that  which  finds  release  when  others  sing. 
Dies  never  so. 

My  World,  thy  great  heart  cannot  hold  the  Spring 
Long  hid.     The  grass  will  know. 


POEMS  75 


LITANY   OF   THE    LIVING 

Death ^  thou  hast  taken. 

Death ^  thou  dost  give, 

JVe  who  outlive^ 
Lo,  we  awaken  ! 

I 

NOW  that  it  is  too  late, 
We  watch,  who  never  saw. 
We  listen  with  vain  awe  5 
We  long  :  we  wait. 
Time  looks  so  desolate. 
Time  that  we  hoarded  once. 
And  something  blunts 

The  sense  of  leisure  now,  where  none  intrudes, 
The  ample  solitudes 
Of  vacant  days. 
Come,  let  us  consecrate 
To  his  new  state 

Rich  hours  and  hours  with  memory  and  praise. 
Now  that  it  is  too  late. 

II 

Surely  we  are  grown  wise 
With  these  amazed  eyes. 


76  POEMS 

Yes,  we  are  eager,  glad. 

To  sum  up  all  we  had, 

Remember,  count  and  glory  !     We  divine 

Full  well  our  riches  in  the  day  of  cost. 

All  that  we  had,  thou  makest  it  to  shine, 

Since  it  is  lost. 

This,  then,  was  he. 

At  last  we  heed,  —  we  see. 

Resistless  ! 

We  see  all  things  so  clear ; 

And  where  we  heard  not,  hear, 

And  love  where  we  were  listless. 

Death ^  potent  Healer^ 

Deaths  who  dost  give^ 
Hear  us  that  live^ 

Unblessed  Revealer  ! 


Ill 

By  the  dear  price  we  paid 
For  hearts  new  made. 
Oh,  by  this  searing  light, 
This  anguish  of  new  sight. 
Let  not  our  wisdom  fade. 
Grant  us  to  understand 
These  near  at  hand  :  — 
Oh,  while  the  sand  still  runs, 
To  cherish  and  to  feed 


POEMS  -j-^ 

Their  living  need. 

We  frugal  ones  ! 

We  who  put  off  from  maddened  day  to  day 

The  word  to  say  :  — 

We  who  are  ever  dumb 

Rather  than  waste  the  crumb  ! 

Sting  to  some  human  use  of  new  discerning, 

Our  shamed  learning  ; 

To  greet  all  beauties,  perfect  or  begun. 

While  there  is  sun  ; 

To  gladden  and  to  thank  all  shadowed  graces 

In  hidden  wistful  places  ; 

To  give,  to  give  ;  to  trust, 

Before  their  hearts  are  dust, 

And  ours  undone. 

Thou  showest  where  we  err. 

But  O,  Interpreter!  — 

Pointing  the  meaning  of  this  piteous  Book 

Whereon  we  look. 

Let  us  be  wise  some  day  to  understand  ; 

To  understand  indeed. 

And  see,  and  read,  — 

Without  thy  Hand. 


78  POEMS 


EPISTLES 

I 

Memorable 

MY  Very  Dear,  the  crescent  moon 
Will  whiten  soon, 
A  drifting  petal,  bitter-sweet  to  see; 
And  in  the  western  sky 
The  golden  islands  lie, 
Too  far  for  me. 

The  tree-tops  are  astir : 
Aspen  and  birch,  and  fir. 
And  pine  the  murmurer. 

Beyond  and  still  beyond,  in  that  dim  croon 

Of  fields  that  wait  the  moon. 

Where  the  moths  hover. 

There  stand  a-muse  for  any  primrose-lover 

The  lights  that  bide,  — 

A  solace  for  the  going  of  the  sun  : 

Meek  fragrancies 

Tacit  and  golden-eyed  ! 

All,  all  and  more  than  these. 

The  lovely  Dark  gives  to  the  seeker's  eye, 


POEMS  79 

But  one  by  one. 

And  I  must  tell  you  though  I  know  not  why, 

Save  that  you  always  hear,  — 

My  Very  Dear. 

II 

To  A,  F,  B,   in  Praise  of  Us, 

What  are  We  Two  ?  —  that  whatsoever  way 
We  meet,  at  morning,  noon,  or  eventide. 
Though  yesterday  had  seen  us  side  by  side, 
A  new  year  has  come  in  since  yesterday  ! 
"  JVhafs  new^  o^ heaven  s  name^  to  do  or  say  ?  " 
The  elders  wonder  at  us,  open-eyed. 
Care  slips,  and  grief — the  pack  —  is  swung  aside; 
And  work  must  needs  be  done,  but  not  to-day. 

Aha\  !     However  'tis,  some  sudden  bloom 
Of  Arden  bowers  over  us,  serene. 
While  to  the  thousand  murmurs  of  her  loom 
Kind  Summer  sings,  a-making  leaves  of  green. 
And  how  we  laugh,  we  lucky  ones,  for  whom 
Bubble  all  laughters  hitherto  unseen  ! 

Ill 

To  the  Friend  that   Was, 

Yes,  you  :  the  only  one  to  say  "  Not  I  !  " 
To  the  abiding  query  of  a  glance  j 


8o  POEMS 

Yes,  you  who  ever  choose  to  look  askance 
At  proffered  hands  of  welcome,  and  pass  by. 
You  know  you  cannot  be  my  enemy 
Longer  than  some  poor  cloud-time  of  mischance 
Blots,  by  your  will,  the  ageless  countenance 
Of  a  blue  heaven  that  bids  you  answer  Why. 

But  ah,  the  waste  of  time !     And,  once  Outside, 
How  shall  we  see  the  futile  raindrop,  hurled 
Into  the  bosom  of  that  radiant  daytime  ? 
Yet  must  I  grieve  at  any  grace  denied,  — 
For  all  the  lost  bright  weathers  in  the  world. 
And  the  vain  shadow  on  this  mortal  Maytime. 


POEMS  8 1 


THE    HEARER 


I   listen ;  and  I  listen ;  and  surmise. 
I  listen  to  all  musics  that  may  be  j 
And  to  the  shapes  and  faces  that  my  eyes 
See. 

I  listen  for  the  strains  of  daily  fate 
To  merge  into  some  large  assurM  Song  ; 
Yea  !  though  belief,  and  hope,  and  hunger  wait 
.   .   .   Long. 

And  more  than  all,  I  listen  to  the  deep 
Of  Silences  that  fold  it  all  around, 
Petal  on  petal,  to  the  heart  asleep, 
Sound. 

Yet  am  I  dumb :  until  She  blow  the  breath  — 
Here  on  my  forehead  —  of  a  spheral  spring  ; 
And  Her  eyes  veil ;  and  the  near  silence  saith, 
"Sing." 


82  POEMS 


THE   WINGLESS   JOY 

YES,  it  is  beautiful.    .    .    .   There  is  no  man 
Living   who   could   have   made   the   thing   so 
plain 
For  eyes  untaught  :  and  there  his  work  is  great. 
He  loved  life  best  in  marble.      But  'twas  Life, 
Breath,  impulse,  passion  —  name  it  as  you  will  — 
He  chose  apart  from  Dream.      No  paradox  : 
It's  not  the  maker,  primitive  himself. 
Who  knows  the  beauty  of  his  simpleness. 
The  subtle  man,  the  thwarted  modern  man 
It  is  who  sees  the  old  instinctive  life 
With  eyes  of  curious  envy  ;   holds  aloof 
To  study  with  delight  the  primal  hues 
And  pulsing  shadow  and  clear  symmetries 
Of  stress  and  joy  and  folly,  not  for  him  — 
Thought-hindered  and  complex.     That  man  was 
Niel. 

But  how  he  made  her  !     I  have  loitered  here 
Along  the  gallery,  of  a  holiday, 
And  watched  the  workmen  passing,  twos  and  threes, 
To  see  the  sights,  half-looking  with  grave  awe 
On  this  and  that  (freemen  and  yet  oppressed 
By  some  vague  condescension  of  the  air) 


POEMS  83 

Turn  back,  to  finger  a  companion's  sleeve 
And  point  at  this.      It  needs  no  word  at  all 
To  tell  the  meaning  of  the  Wingless  Joy. 

Unto  the  happiest  life,  the  gods  allow- 
But  once  that  rapture  tiptoe  in  mid-heaven  ! 
And  yet  she  is  so  sweetly  made  of  earth. 
The  earth  of  rain-pure  April  —  and  her  lips 
Are  parted  with  a  human  sweet  amaze 
To  feel  the  sudden  immortality 
Of  flame  go  singing,  singing  in  her  veins, 
"  Kin  with  the  rose-tree  and  the  wakened  brook, 
Made  to  make  glad,  behold  I  gladden  You, 
And  all  things  lean  to  me  !      I  cannot  die." 
How  simple,  just  to  make  her  standing  there, 
Poised  like  a  fountain,  ever  old  and  new  ! 
And  her  wide  eyes  —  some  statues  have  no  eyes  — 
Rapt  with  the  tidings  of  exceeding  joy 
That  dawns  for  her,  a  vision  half  withheld 
Of  utmost,  and  unspeakable,  and  dear ; 
Herself  so  clear  a  heart,  she  cannot  doubt  ! 
For  me,  that  woman  wrought  of  changeless  stone. 
Darkles  and  sparkles  with  a  living  light. 
Her  smile  so  questions  something  her  eyes  see 
And  read  again.      Her  revelation  grows  ; 
And  how  the  risen  gladness  overruns 
From  her  glad  being,  —  sweetness  of  the  tree. 
To  thrill  the  air  and  hold  it  like  a  Voice  ! 


84  POEMS 

Some  look  askance  upon  that  gift  of  his 
To  seize  ephemera  and  make  them  live  ;  — 
Call  it  unsculpturesque   .    .    .    although  his  art 
Hushes  the  cricket-cry  like  thunder  near, 
When  they  stand  face  to  face  with  such  as  this, 
This  Utmost  Moment  that  outlives  the  years. 

Wingless,  you  see.      She  has  no  other  home. 
She  loves  her  once ;  the  single  soul  of  her 
Knows  but  the  glory  of  one  day  and  night. 
She  may  not  come  and  go,  —  nor  hide,  nor  range  j 
Nor  find  her  any  refuge  in  the  stars. 
She  walks  the  earth  with  lovely  earthly  feet. 
And  when  earth  fails  her,  she  can  only  die. 
How  well  he  knew  !   .    .    .     And  yet  he  did  not 
know. 

You've  heard  the  story.      But  you  never  saw 
The  woman  till  to-day  ;  well,  see  her  now. 
And  yet  if  you  had  seen  her  that  first  time 
She  dawned  on  us.   .   .   .A  knock  upon  the  door, 
Half-heeded  with   "  Come    in  "  —  and  there  she 

stood. 
Full  in  a  shaft  of  sunlight  that  the  square 
Small  window  of  the  hall  let  in,  with  Spring. 
Her  eyes  unknowing,  wide  and  unafraid. 
And  the  whole  outline  of  her  edged  with  light ; 
Her  hair,  —  you  know  that  dark  of  Italy, 
So  black,  it  turns  the  sun  to  silverness, 


POEMS  85 

And  in  the  shadow,  purples  with  a  bloom 

Of  vineyards  ?     And  you  know  the  brightness  held 

In  the  warm  shallow  of  a  woman's  ear. 

So  intricate  and  simple,  —  human  rose. 

But  eloquent  as  not  a  rose  may  be  ! 

Oh,  yes,  for  that  first  breath,  you  may  be  sure 

I  thought  the  Vision  must  have  given  heed. 

Quite  mother-wise,  like  the  Madonna  there 

Who  holds  her  Baby  ever  in  her  arm 

And  listens  to  the  prayers  of  all  the  poor ! 

This  seemed  so  plain  a  challenge  from  the  Sun, 

Color  and  color  !     Such  a  little  thing 

Remained  —  to  paint  it  merely  —  in  the  day 

Of  visitation  !      I  was  wrong,  you  see. 

Enough  of  dreamers.    ...   It  was  Life  for  Niel  5 

And  it  was  Niel  who  saw  her  Beauty  through 

The  clothing  loveliness  ;  and  it  was  Niel 

Who  made  her  clear  :  —  the  elemental  heart 

That  can  drink  off  one  rapture  for  a  draught, 

Mindless  of  meat  and  drink  forevermore. 

That  first  day  keeps  the  fragrance  more  than  all. 
I  know  Niel  watched  her  with  his  opaque  eyes 
Of  thought,  while  she,  her  errand  on  her  lips, 
Unuttered,  moved  about  half  dreamingly, 
A  shy,  sure  presence ;  looked  upon  his  work 
And  then  at  mine,  with  the  first  smile  for  me  ; 
Stood  back  an  instant  from  Diskobolos, 
In  a  dark  corner,  then  begged  pardon  of  him 


86  POEMS 

Speechlessly  with  a  slow  approving  look 

Of  old  acquaintance;  passed  the  Laughing  Faun; 

Wondered  somewhat,  with  gentle  courtesy, 

At  the  scant  treasures  that  our  walls  could  show 

In  those  bare  days  (for  we  were  workmen  both)  ; 

The  few  old  textiles,  prey  of  moth  and  dust, 

But  boastful  of  their  color  to  the  last ; 

A  sketch  or  two  from  dead,  immortal  hands. 

And  hanging  near,  a  crescent  in  a  wrack 

Of  sunset-cloud,  my  eastern  scimitar. 

Whereat  she  shook  her  head  and  drew  her  breath  — 

As  a  good  child  helps  out  a  fairy  tale 

With  willing  fright  —  and  drew  away  from  it. 

Then  catching  sight  of  some  more  friendly  thing. 

Her  eyes  grew  gold  again  with  happy  mirth  ; 

She  flung  the  shawl  back  from  her  little  wrist, 

Spread  wide  the  fingers,  tapered  like  a  saint's. 

And  held  them,  warm  and  fresh,  beside  a  cast 

As  like  as   death   may   be  .   .   .  "So,  here, —  my 

hand ! " 
Out  came  the  errand  then  by  single  words, 
Strange  music  to  us,  scattered  mellow  notes, 
And  then  a  rush  of  voluble  sweet  talk. 
Like  the  first  blackbird  that  a  schoolboy  hears. 

I  think  he  saw  his  triumph  from  the  first. 
This  venture  that  would  win  the  world  to  him, 
While  he  made  studies,  and  the  problem  grew. 
The  workman  in  him  breasted,  day  and  night, 


POEMS  87 

A  stretch  of  bush  and  brier  and  stubborn  rock 

Fit  for  a  pioneer;  —  won  inch  by  inch, 

As  none  could  do  who  did  not  see  his  path 

Through  one  portentous  struggle,  to  the  clear 

Far  peak,  star-confident.      Niel  was  a  man 

Who  bound  the  service  of  all  elements 

He  came  upon  :  himself  unpitied  slave 

To  his  own  purpose,  —  other  minds  to  him  ; 

This  girl  beyond  them  all.   .    .    . 

No,  there  is  nothing  hidden,  no  offence 

Unsightly  to  the  world  ;  —  all  far  from  that  ! 

Of  course  she  came  to  love  him,  to  be  his 

As  wholly  as  a  dumb  child  must  belong 

To  its  interpreter.      He  had  the  look 

That  comprehends  a  man,  and  binds  him  so. 

For  Niel  there  was  no  mystery  in  men  : 

No  need  to  be  yourself  adventurer  ! 

Art  for  Art's  sake  !  and  keep  your  vision  clear : 

Lean  from  the  gallery  along  with  us 

And  watch  the  gladiators  as  they  come. 

And  praise  who  dies  the  best  !     We  are  beyond 

That  rude  encounter,  beautiful  to  see. 

He  understood  it  so,  and  took  delight 

In  nature  of  the  simplest  human  scale. 

The  unknown  essence  only  served  to  spice 

Some  little  talk  of  self,  across  the  smoke. 

Late  evenings ;   filled  the  place  of  reverence 

Towards  women  of  his  world,  elusive,  fine. 

Detached  as  he,  between  their  ways  of  thought 


88  POEMS 

And  outgrown  Intuitions.      Ah,  he  was 

An  Artist;  and  he  saw  as  none  else  could, 

The  rarity  of  this  intrepid  bloom 

Whose  only  speech  was  Being.     There  it  grew 

Wild,  by  the  highroad  !      And  he  gathered  it. 

I  do  not  know  how  much  of  it  was  Art, 

Or  how  much  more,  perhaps,  the  constant  lure 

Of  her  young  spirit  for  the  curious  mind. 

It  is  not  often  that  we  see  a  heart 

So  near  —  and  red  —  and  empty .     And  to  know  — 

To  know  for  once,  and  show  it  to  the  world. 

How  golden  eyes  could  darken  and  turn  gold 

From  some  new  source  of  sunrise  and  of  night; 

To  see  a  child-face  grow  before  your  own 

Into  the  dream  of  womanhood  in  flower ; 

To  know  what  words  that  simple  tongue  would  shape 

For  tenderness  as  foreign  as  its  speech ;  — 

To  know  what  Eve  could  find  in  her  to  say 

When  first  the  lips  of  the  first  man  made  plea 

Against  her  cheek,  there  in  the  garden-place. 

Eastward  in  Eden  —  have  you  ever  thought  ?  — 

Herself  the  only  woman  that  she  knew  ! 

Did  you  not  wish,  along  the  gallery  there 

Only  an  hour  ago,  to  take  that  vase 

Of  Cyprus  out  from  all  its  fellow  wares. 

Into  the  light,  where  you  could  hear  it  plain  ?  — 

You  said  so,  laughing,  —  where  it  could  unfold 

Its  eloquence  ;  the  equal  melody. 


POEMS  89 

And  the  globed  dimness,  glass  soft  breathed  upon 

By  ancient  years  till  it  is  opal-strange, 

And  lucent  as  a  drowsy  underwave 

Of  green  sea-water  lighted  by  the  sun  ; 

Perfect  and  empty  :  —  with  some  use,  be  sure, 

Save  to  stand  idle,  even  for  us  to  see 

With  eyes  of  worship.      For  the  elder  Art 

Had  ever  such  near  kinship  with  men's  lives, 

To  enrich  poor  shrines  and  sweeten  peasant  bread. 

So,  why  not  make  that  shape  articulate  ? 

Fulfil  its  longing ;  set  it  in  the  light ; 

Give  it  the  crocuses  it's  empty  for. 

And  watch  the  water,  softly  set  ajar. 

Shake  out  the  beryl  lights  and  filminess, 

And  gather  silver  on  the  April  stems. 

The  love  of  some  men  is  not  so  unlike 

This  woman  fineness.     Yes,  all  thought  aside, 

To  watch  the  beauty  of  fulfilment,  close, 

With  pleased  and  curious  eyes. 

I  saw  —  half  saw  — 
How  Niel  was  making  her  the  perfect  Joy 
With  all  a  workman's  ardor  of  research. 
God  knows  I  cannot  tell  what  art  he  used  .   .   . 
My  voice  is  not  the  charmer's  —     But  I  saw 
He  would  have  out  the  hidden  strength  in  her,  — 
Bade  her  be  woman  ;  —  studied  with  delight 
j  The  early  largess  of  that  southern  dawn ; 
Blew  back  the  folded  petals  of  the  rose. 
Only  to  see !   .   .   .  till  he  could  say  at  last, 


90 


POEMS 


"  Look  at  me,  Benedetta.      So,  at  me. 

And  can  you  look,  for  just  the  breathing  space, 

As  if  you  saw  before  you  —  but  not  far, 

All  that  your  heart  desired  ;  —  not  too  far  — 

The  dearest  thing  that  you  could  ask  of  life  ? 

Yes,  see  it,  try  to  see  the  Heart's  Desire  !  " 

His  hands  upon  her  shoulders  then,  for  poise ; 

And  as  she  looked  back  dumbly  (coming  in, 

I  seemed  to  hear  her  look)  he  tried  too  far 

What    tenderness  could   wake.      "So,  child,"    he 

said. 
And  kissed  her. 

The  model  grew  like  magic  from  that  day  ;  — 
The  world  knows  how,  and  how  it  saw  the  light. 
At  the  first  cry  of  that  world-wide  acclaim, 
She  shared  our  little  carnival  with  us  ; 
And  kissed  her  radiant  sister  of  the  clay  — 
Because  she  brought  him  fortune  in  an  hour  !  — 
And  kissed  her  own  face  in  the  faded  glass. 
Saying,  "  Yes,  it  is  true,  the  thing  you  speak  : 
The  good  God  made  my  head  and  hands  and  all ; 
He  made  me  well.    But  you,"  —  to  Niel,  —  "  you, 


y 


ou 


Have  made  me  much  more  lovelier  than  He. 
Oh,  Benedetta  !     She  is  Joy  indeed  !  " 

Within  a  few  strange  weeks,  how  all  was  changed  1 
After  his  years  of  shallow  half-success, 


POEMS  91 

The  venture  won,  the  man's  name  common  talk, 

And  the  One  Woman  of  his  finer  world  — 

Charmed  from  herself  and  stepping  from  the  niche 

To  follow  his  new  fortunes  over  sea  ! 

It  seems  a  thing  unreal,  impossible 

To  dreamer  and  to  drudge.      But  so  it  came. 

On  the  last  day  I  found  him  there  at  work 

Against  the  sudden  break  for  liberty, 

Ready  to  go.      I  spoke  then  :  "  Does  she  know  ?  " 

"  Who  ?      Benedetta  ?     Yes,  she  must  have  heard. 

These  noisy  days  that  I  have  been  away. 

She  is  a  marvel,  when  all's  said.      Without  her 

It  never  could  have  been.      I  owe  her  all.  — 

A  genius  for  existence.   .    .    .  What  she  might 

Have  been    ...    in  any  other  century  ! 

Well,  she's  herself  :   a  glory.     And  for  me. 

The  thing  is  done." 

I  was  still  there  at  dusk. 
Unwillingly  delaying,  when  she  came. 
"  The  marble,  Benedetta!     It  is  sold." 
She  listened  dully,  creature  of  the  South, 
Sleep-walking  in  some  desolate  new  cold ; 
Her  eyes  too  fixed  with  watching.     So  :  she  knew. 
''  Me  —  me,"  she  answered  slowly,  "  that  is  well. 
You  have  your  fortune  of  it.      I  am  glad. 
And  you  are  going  —  where  ?  " 

"  New  lands.  —  new  seas  ; 
Your  country,  Benedetta  !  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 


92  POEMS 

"  It  was  my  country  :  I  remember  it.   .   .   . 
And  when  you  go,  you  take  the  clay  with  you  ?  " 
He  laughed  a  little.     "  Say  good-by,"  he  said, 
"  Like  the  good  friend  you  are,  and  wish  me  well. 
1  cannot  tell  you  what  you  were  to  me.    .    .    . 
I  go  to-morrow.    ..."     I  have  never  seen 
Before  or  since  that  day  such  eyes  of  death, 
Wide,  empty,  gaunt  —  with  all  the  light  gone  out. 
He  answered  half,  the  gaze  he  did  not  meet 
Even  with  his  own  opaque  and  buoyant  looks  — 
Turned  to  the  Joy  and  said,  "  Look,  you  are  she  ! 
Be  proud  of  her,  for  she  is  always  glad." 

For  a  strange  moment,  then,  she  stretched  her  arms 
Like  one  left  houseless,  saying,  "  Is  it  IF  " 
And  looked  at  her  two  hands,  and  at  the  Joy 
That  smiled  on  her  unwisdom,  with  great  eyes. 
And  feeling,  with  vague  steps,  and  sight  gone  dim, 
After  the  doorway,  —  so  she  chanced  to  jar 
The  single  hanging  with  its  bits  of  steel  5 
And  sound  and  thought  struck  home. 

I  know  it  was 
A  madness,  not  a  purpose ;  nay,  not  that,  — 
Only  the  impulse  of  a  tortured  heart 
To  put  some  thing  that  suffered  out  of  pain : 
She  caught  that  lightning  from  the  tapestry. 

My  scimitar  it  was.    ...   I  drew  it  out. 
But  time  seemed  long  with  nothing  left  to  do 


POEMS  93 

Save  bite  the  anguish  back,  to  succor  hers, 

And  kiss  her  poor  sweet  hands,  and  lay  her  down, 

—  The  torn  heart  in  her  harshly  sobbing  out 

Its  redness,  —  and  to  turn  her  face  away 

From  that  transfigured  vision  of  herself. 

Still  smiling  on  her   .    .    .   as  it  smiles  on  you.   i 

And  this  is  what  she  lived  for  !   .    .    . 

I  was  wrong 
To  call  him  Judas.      How  should  he  foresee  ? 
The  spirit  is  grown  frugal  in  these  days. 
Who  thinks  to  meet  with  spendthrift  love  and  hate 
Out  of  a  sonnet  sequence  ?  —  What,  at  home  ? 
Or  in  the  street  ?      Or  in  your  eyes,  new  friend  ? 
Suppose  you  set  yourself,  half  poet-wise. 
Half  curiously,  and  beckoned  by  What-if? 
To  call  up  some  far  spirit  from  Without. 
Would  not  your  heart  turn  cold  to  see  it  grow  ' 
Reluctantly,  —  the  never-faded  eyes. 
The  voice  you  disbelieved  in,  with,  "  I  come. 
You  called  ?     What  would  you  have  ?  " 

And  yet  take  care. 
We  are  so  quick  to  blame  some  Master  Hand  : 
We  say,  "  He  made  us  and  He  moulded  us 
To  see  us  broken  so  !  "     It  is  the  cry 
Of  the  stung  believer;  and  it  is  the  cry 
Of  him  who  says  there  is  no  God  at  all,  — 
Girding  up  in  his  heart  the  bitterness 
Against  a  blank,  black  space  that  should  be  God, 
And  is  not,  only  emptiness  abhorred  ^ 


94  '  POEMS 

By  Nature  and  her  son  !  —  We  cry  on  Him.  • 
Oh,  why  not  —  if  the  Art  be  all  in  all  — 
Say  of  the  Potter,  "  Art  for  Art's  sake,"  then  ! 
Grant  Him  your  modern  right  to  make  and  mar 
For  the  mere  craft's  sake,  too ;   and  let  Him  say, 
(Why  not,  why  not  ?  ) 

"  /  made  this  TVoman  here 
Of  fairness  from  the  clay  of  trodden  Springs, 
Look  you^  lost  "June  is  in  her.      You  can  see 
In  her  young  hands  the  selfsame  primal  glow 
^h at  flushes  in  My  gardens  of  the  world. 
And  I  have  given  her  the  miracle,^ 
The  heating  heart  within^  the  holy  Fire, 
So,,  full  of  breath,  ,  ,  ,  Live ^  suffer^  —  shine ,,  and  die. 
Fairer  than  petals^  go  the  way  of  them.    ,   .   , 
/  made  and  I  have  broken.      It  is  good^ 


SONGS 


DAILY    BREAD 

WHEN  the  long  gray  day  is  done. 
Spent  at  weary  seams, 
Homeward  comes  my  Heart  to  me, 
With  the  flock  of  dreams. 

"  And  what  tidings,  ruddy  Heart  ? 

Shall  we  never  share, 
Hand  in  hand,  the  sun  and  wind. 

Seeking  all  that's  fair  ? " 

"  Not  to-morrow,  Dear-to-me  I 

Ours  are  parted  ways : 
Thine  the  spinning,  mine  to  seek 

Fortune  of  the  days." 

Oh,  and  it  is  cold  without 

My  own  Heart  to  sing ; 
Oh,  and  'tis  a  lonely  way 

My  Heart  goes  wandering. 

But  I  fold  the  web,  at  dusk. 

As  a  maid  beseems; 
And  my  sunburned  Heart  comes  home, 

With  the  flock  of  dreams. 


(97) 


98  SONGS 


PLAY   UP,   PIPER! 

PLAY  up,  play  up,  my  Piper, 
And  play  the  timely  song, 
The  song  that  never  a  worker  hears. 

Although  his  heart  may  long. 
It's  we  are  glad  to  listen  here 

Who  have  but  Yea  and  Nay ; 
But  would  you  only  pipe  to  us 
The  word  we  want  to-day ! 

We  heard  your  heart-break,  Piper;  ', 

And  oh,  but  it  was  like ! 
'Tis  so  —  'tis  so,  the  ill  winds  blow, 

'Tis  so  the  sorrows  strike. 
But  would  you  only  pipe  to  us 

The  turning  of  the  way. 
And  how  it  is  you  come,  at  last. 

To  pipe  again,  to-day  ! 

The  broken  hopes  of  harvest, 

The  wearing  of  the  rain. 
The  ailing  of  a  little  cheek, 

You  make  us  weep  again. 
But  tell  us  of  the  wage,  man, 

You  had  for  this  hard  day ; 
Play  up,  play  up,  dear  Piper, 

And  tell  us  why  you  play ! 


SONGS  99 


THE   COMFORT 

AS  I  came  down  along  the  height 
I  saw  the  Evening  Star, 
Benignant,  near,  the  nearest  lamp 

Among  the  worlds  afar. 
Oh,  kindly  close  it  looked  on  me 
To  keep  us  children  company 
With  all  love-looks  that  are ! 


As  I  came  down  along  the  moor 

I  saw  the  window-light. 
Clear  shining  out  across  the  dark, 

A  welcome  to  the  night : 
And  these  two  glories,  home  and  star. 
The  very  near  and  very  far, 

Were  like  to  one  delight. 

As  I  came  by  the  valley  brook 
The  fireflies  hovered  there. 

They  shed  a  slow,  unanxious  glow, 
Poising  in  quiet  air; 

So  constant  and  so  near  at  hand 

That  any  eyes  could  understand 
Their  starlight  unaware. 


loo  SONGS 

Some  kinship  here  I  cannot  read 

Because  it  lies  too  deep  : 
But  these  three  starry  things  I  saw, 

And  mine  they  are  to  keep. 
How  like  they  were,  some  happy  way, 
It  shines  through  all  the  troubled  day, 

It  shines  on  me  through  sleep  ! 


SONGS  loi 


CARPACCIO'S   ANGEL   WITH 
THE    LUTE 

I   LEAN  my  head  to  hear  each  string  l 
We  hum  together,  cheek  to  cheek, 
And  oh,  there  is  not  anything 

So  loud,  but  I  can  hear  it  speak. 
And  it  is  shapen  like  some  fruit 
All  mellowness  —  my  Lute. 
(Wilt  sing?) 

My  singing-bird  that  I  love  dear  ! 

Above  the  sound  of  harp  and  flute 
And  viol-grown,  the  voice  is  clear 

Brown  honey  from  my  little  Lute. 
1  harken  so  to  every  tone, 
Because  it  is  my  own. 

(Canst  hear  ?) 


I02  SONGS 


THE    STAY-AT-HOME 

I   HAVE  waited,  I  have  longed  — 
I  have  longed  as  none  can  know, 
All  my  spring  and  summer  time. 
For  this  day  to  come  and  go ; 
And  the  foolish  heart  was  mine. 
Dreaming  I  would  see  them  shine, — 
Harlequin  and  Columbine 

And  Pierrot ! 

Now  the  laughing  has  gone  by. 
On  the  highway  from  the  inn ; 

And  the  dust  has  settled  down. 
And  the  house  is  dead  within. 

And  I  stay  —  who  never  go  — 

Looking  out  upon  the  snow. 

Columbine  and  Pierrot 

And  Harlequin  f 

All  the  rainbow  things  you  see 
Understream  are  not  so  fine ; 

And  their  voices  weave  and  cling 
Like  my  honeysuckle  vine. 

Lovely  as  a  Violin  !  — 

Mellow  gold  and  silver-thin  : 

Pierrot  and  Harlequin 

And  Columbine  ! 


SONGS  103 

Oh,  the  people  that  have  seen. 

They  forget  that  it  was  so! 
They,  who  never  stay  at  home. 

Say,  "  'Tis  nothing  but  a  show." 
—  And  I  keep  the  passion  in  : 
And  I  bide;  and  I  spin. 
Columbine  ,    .    .   Harlequin 

•   .   ,   Pierrot! 


I04  SONGS 


RETURN 

SOLDIER-BOY,  soldier-boy, 
Now  the  war  is  done, 
Are  you  not  a  happy  lad 

To  see  the  world  at  one  ? 
Home  again  —  home  again. 
Living,  in  the  sun  ! 

"  Oh,  the  faces  smiled  on  us 
While  the  faces  passed  ; 

And  the  cannon  hailed  the  flags 
Waving  from  the  mast. 

It  was  good,  it  was  good,  — 
Ah,  too  good  to  last. 

"Now  the  streets  are  still  again. 

Still  enough  to  fret, 
Though  the  hurts  you  do  not  see 

May  be  aching  yet. 
What  we  gave,  what  we  won. 

Most  of  you  forget. 

"  For  however  much  I  pay 
There  is  more  to  owe  ; 

And  I  must  be  doing  still. 
And  choose  my  yes  and  no ! 


SONGS  105 

Btit  friend  to  me  or  enemy,  — 
Who  wears  aught  to  show  ? 

''Taking  orders  from  myself 

Leaves  me  many  ways  ; 
And  there  isn't  much  to  choose 

When  a  man  obeys  ! 
But  a  bullet  keeps  its  word 

When  a  kiss  betrays." 

Soldier-boy,  soldier-boy, 

Tell  me  what  you  bring 
From  the  wisdom  of  the  war 

Years  and  nations  sing. 
"  What  is  death  ?     A  bitter  breath  ! 

Life's  the  hardest  thing." 


io6  SONGS 


WORDS    FOR    AN    IRISH     FOLK-SONG 

OH,  my   day  is  lone.      May  every  day  be    fair 
to  you  !  — 
Shining  like  the  moon  you  are,  too  far  to  see. 
But  I  ease  my  heart  with  singing  all  my  care  to 

you. 
Where  I  cannot  grieve  you  w^ith  the  grief  in  me. 

Here  I  wait  and  work  ;  and   never  catch  a  gleam 

of  you. 
And  you  never  feel  my  longing,  over-sea. 
Ah,  but  BlessM  Eyes,  such  comfort's  in  the  dream 

of  you, 
I  can  stay  my  heart  to   earn  the  joy  for  you  and 

me  ! 


SONGS  107 


LIGHT    IN    DARK 

IT  was  the  twilight  made  you  look 
So  kindly  and  so  far. 
It  was  the  twilight  gave  your  eyes 
A  shadow,  and  a  star. 

For  loveliness  is  not  to  keep 

Unto  the  skies  alone  ; 
And  though  the  glories  may  be  gone, 

The  heart  will  have  its  own. 

Some  likeness  of  a  dream  is  shed 
From  all  fair  things,  too  far ; 

And  so  your  eyes  have  left  to  me 
A  shadow  and  a  star. 


io8  SONGS 


A    SPINNING-SONG 

MOTHER,  dear,  I  do  not  leave 
Old  love  for  a  new: 
This  is  older  far  than  all, 
If  the  stars  be  true. 

When  I  answered  to  his  look, 

A  little  moon  ago. 
Ah,  that  early  greeting  woke 

All  I  used  to  know  ! 

Then  I  heard  the  Deep  call 
Round  about  our  mirth  ; 

Then  I  felt  the  Garden  breath. 
Older  than  the  earth. 

So  we  walked  together  once,  — 

Brow  and  brow  as  near. 
Shining  with  the  dew  from  off 

Trees  that  held  us  dear. 

Oh,  it  is  no  gypsy-light. 
Bids  me  forth,  to  roam  !  — 

But  my  own  star  in  his  eyes. 
Wanting  me  at  home  ! 


SONGS  109 


MIRANDA 


HOW  could  I  tell,  so  unaware, 
That  it  was  all  for  you 
The  suns  shed  gold  upon  my  hair. 
And  all  the  lost  leaves  shadowed  there, 
And  deeps  of  far  star-lighted  air 

Left  in  my  eyes  their  blue  ? 
But  now  I  know  that  I  am  fair, 
For  you  ! 

Oh,  never  doubt  that  whatsoe'er 

Of  beautiful  for  you 
My  mother  April  lets  me  wear. 
Summer  shall  make  it  richer  fair 
For  kindly  Frost  to  see  —  and  spare. 

Till  lover's  charm  renew. 
Nay,  Earth  will  heed  the  little  prayer  !  ■ 
For  you. 


no  SONGS 


THE    BELOVED 

I   HAVE  no  mirror  any  more. 
Save  in  beloved  eyes, 
Where  only  I  behold  myself 
Beautiful,  and  wise. 

Oh,  I  am  wise  with  all  the  light 

The  waking  garden  knows  ; 
And  I  will  lift  my  heart  therein, 
Blessed  as  a  Rose. 


SONGS  III 


GOOD-NIGHT 


OOD-NIGHT,  my  burden.     Rest  you 
there, 

The  working  hours  are  over ; 
Poor  weight,  that  had  to  be  my  care, 

And  why,  let  time  discover  ! 
The  evening  star  sheds  down  on  me 

The  dearer  look  than  laughter. 
At  whose  clear  call  I  put  by  all 
Forbids  me  follow  after  ;  — 
Free,  free  to  breathe  First-Breath  again,  the  breath 
of  all  hereafter  ! 

Good-night,  heart's  grief :  and  rest  you  there, 

Until  your  own  to-morrow. 
Here's  only  place  for  that  wide  air 

More  old,  more  young,  than  sorrow. 
And  though  I  hear,  from  far  without, 

These  caging  winds  keep  revel. 
Oh,  yet  I  must  bestow  some  trust 

Where  water  seeks  her  level, 
Where   wise-heart  water    seeks    and  sings,    until 
she  reach  the  level. 


God  bless  this  little  share  of  bread y 
This  woater  from  the  spring. 

The  Hjoayside  boon  of  rest  at  noon 
When  <ive  go  hungering : 

And  as  ive  shoulder  care  again, 
God  make  us  all  to  sing! 


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